And hearing this she wept bitterly, fearing, and with reason, that I should not return.

Then I comforted her with the hermit’s prophecy, saying nought of her father.  And she, sweet soul, promised that Matelgar should tend my lands and hall well till the words of the holy man came true, and I might take them back from him.  And then she added that sorely cast down and troubled had her father seemed when he rode back from the Moot that day, and doubtless it was from this.  But how glad would he be to know me living, and even now would take me in and set me on my way, notwithstanding the order of the ealdorman!

Now when I heard that Matelgar was indeed returned, and so close to me, I knew not what to do or say:  for all my plans that he should think me dead were like to be overthrown by the talk of this innocent daughter of his.

And she, seeing me troubled, would have me say what it was, and I found it hard to answer her.

At last I told her how even Matelgar dared not harbour or assist me, and cried out on my folly in bringing blame even on her, were my presence known.  But she stopped my mouth, telling me most lovingly that the risk was worth the running, so that she knew me living again.

Then I said that, lest harm should come to her father, it were better to keep secret that I had been here.  And that, moreover, those enemies of mine would doubtless track me till they knew me gone from the kingdom, so that were a whisper to go abroad that I had been seen here, it might be death for me.

“And for this,” I added, “it is likely that Matelgar, your father, will have it spread abroad that I am dead, in his care for my safety.  For so will question about me and where I am cease.”

This I said lest she should deny when the news came, as it must, that this was so.

Yet she longed to tell her father that I was here; but at last I overpersuaded her, and she promised to tell none, not even him, that she had seen me, and for my sake to feign to believe that I was dead.

Then we must part.  I told her my plans for going still westward to make myself a name, if that might be; and promised to let her have news of me, if and when I might, and in all to be true to her.

And she, brave girl, would try not to weep as I kissed her for the last time; and gave me the little silver cross from her neck to keep for her sake, telling me that she would pray for me night and day, and that surely her prayers, and those of the holy man and the innocent child would be heard for me, so that the prophecy would come true.  And more she said, which I may not write.  Then footsteps came up the main path, and I must go.

I heard her singing as she went back to the hail in the evening light, and knew that that was for my sake, and not for lightness of heart; and so, when her voice died away, I plunged again into the woods, making westward while light lasted.