Thorgills turned to the Lady Aastrid. “Thou wilt come with us, also,” he said, “for there is that I would say to Jarl Fiachtna I would thou shouldst hear.”
Maidoch’s face grew pale as death at the words. With trembling steps she led the way to the door of her father’s room. Upon a couch drawn close to the window, lay the dying man. He smiled lovingly at Maidoch, and held out his hand in cordial greeting to Thorgills. “I am coming near the end of the way, my friend,” he said, “and life has held so many sorrows I am not greatly loath to part with it.”
The tall blond bard bent over the feeble old man. “My Jarl,” he said, in a voice as soothing as a mother to an ailing child, “is there aught I can do to make the close of thy life secure from care? I have been thy friend. My fealty has been given to thee, and to thine. My voice and my sword, in word and in deed, would gladly have been pledged to protect thee and thine. Is there any dear care I might take from thee at this hour? My own heart would ask to share that which hath been thy dearest. Now would I ask thy blessing on my desire to wed thy maiden, Maidoch.”
The little maid had sunk down beside the couch and had hidden her face in her hands. Thorgills did not look at her nor move towards her.
Fiachtna gazed affectionately at the scald, and took the strong-muscled hand in his own wasted one. “Thou hast been as a son to me in this strange land,”
