“My wife is of thy land, Sir Chief,” Thorgills answered.
“Then should she be loving and faithful.”
Thorgills was silent a space, then said slowly: “She is but young, Sir Chief, but she is very dutiful, and her heart is all turned to her own land.”
Eogan O’Niall looked in wonder at the scald. “All her heart, thou sayest? That do I not understand. Ever an Irish woman turns her heart to her husband.”
Thorgills’ voice was very gentle. “Sir Chief, she is so young, and now I do believe she married me out of her promise to her father. I was so eager to call her mine, I waited not to win her heart. She is faithful, aye, and ever dutiful. In my thought she was ever the white flower I would wear upon my heart. Now I seem to have grasped the flower too hastily, and all the soul of its chaliced, fragrant life is closed and hidden to me.”
Eogan O’Niall laid his hand in Thorgills’. “Friend,” he said, “think thou. There is no flower will stay closed to the sunlight. There is no true woman’s heart will stay closed to kindness. Thy young wife is as the rose that waits for the sun to burst open all its beauty, and all its fragrance. Thou hast left her in the shadows of a lonely life.”
Thorgills looked anxiously at the speaker. “She hath friends, she hath grace and wit and beauty.”
“In the kindness of friends her heart will not
