Maidoch was listening intently. Then this great king could send them back to Ireland, even as he had rescued them. Her eyes grew misty as she thought of her native land, and she clung closer to her father as she glanced around at the strange, stern faces of the Norsemen. When, however, her glance rested upon the king her heart grew braver. He was so noble, so warlike, and he had pledged his strong, unbroken word for their safety.
“Might I not bring thee food and drink? It is but simple fare we carry, but it may sustain thee.” Thorgills’ words were addressed to Fiachtna, but he gave a quick glance to Maidoch. The girl looked anxiously at her father.
“If thou, kind sir, could fetch him some food,” she said, and the scald thought the voice sweeter than the murmur of the Nidaros Fiord at twilight. They were the first words she had spoken, and in her solicitude for her father she had forgotten her shyness and had looked full in Thorgills’ face. How deep blue were her eyes, veiled with the dark fringe of lashes, and overarched with the jetty curves of the brows. Masses of rich dark hair framed the beautiful face, the loose strands lying on the full white throat and the firm young shoulders. The eagerness of her tone to the scald, and his steady look into her eyes, had brought the rich color to her cheeks, that had been pallid from terror.
“It is as she would say, good friend,” Fiachtna
