When the lute proved to be in accord, Maidoch struck the strings with firmer touch, and sang in her rich, sweet young voice, a saga of home yearning:
On the foam of the billows far sweeping
On the wind of the never still sea,
The sighs of my waking and sleeping
Are wafted on sure wings to thee,
My far, fair land!
For the dear holy sound of the ringing
Of abbey bells, filling the day,
Comes the fierce oath, the wrath of swords swinging—
With thee let my memory stay,
My far, fair land!
Drear heart of me, rest thee forever,
In hope of the blessed sweet light
Of my green island home, that may never
Bring heaven to my tear-darkened sight,
My far, fair land!
Thorgills was still standing when Maidoch finished her song and laid aside her lute. The Lady Aastrid came in. “Thou art right welcome!” she said to the scald. Maidoch started and turned around. Thorgills smiled into Aastrid’s gracious face, and he bowed gravely to the young girl.
“How is thy honored father?” he asked; and Maidoch answered sadly that he grew no stronger.
“I would speak to him, if so I might,” Thorgills said; and Maidoch moved to conduct him to the sick chamber.
