There was a little flush on her face when she saw me, but it was not altogether one of pleasure, for when I wished her good morrow, all that I had in return was a cold little bow and the few words that needs must be spoken in answer.  Whereat I felt somewhat foolish; but it did not seem to me that I had done aught to deserve quite so much coldness, not being a stranger by any means.  So I would even try to find the way to a better understanding, and I thought that maybe the sight of me had brought back some of the terror of last night.

“Now, I hope that the rough doings of the feast have not been troublous to you, Lady Elfrida,” I said, trying with as good a grace as I could not to see her cold looks.

I saw that she did indeed shrink a little from them as I spoke, even in the passing thought.

But she answered: 

“Such things are best forgotten as soon as may be.  I do not wish to hear more of them.”

“Nevertheless,” I answered, “there are some who will not forget them, and I fear that you must needs be ready to hear of your part in them pretty often.”

“Ay,” she said somewhat bitterly, “I suppose that I am the talk of the whole place now.”

“If so, there would be many who would be glad to be spoken of as you must needs be.  There is nought but praise for you.”

Then she turned on me, and the trouble was plain enough in a moment.

“But for yourself, Thane, there would have been nought that I could not have put up with.  But little thought for me was there when you made me the jest of your idle comrades over that foolish cup of the king’s.”

That was a new way of looking at the matter, in all truth.  I supposed that a vow of fealty to any lady would have been taken by her as somewhat on which to pride herself maybe, from whomsoever it came.  Which seemed to be foolishness in this fresh light.  Still, it came to me that her anger was not altogether fair, for I was the one who had to stand the jesting, and not one of my honest comrades so much as mentioned her name lightly in any wise.

“That was no jest of mine, Elfrida,” I said gravely enough.  “If there is any jest at all that will come from my oath, it will be that I have been foolish enough to vow fealty to one who despises me.  The last thing that I would do is anything that might hurt you.  And my vow stands fast, whether you scorn me or not, for if it was made in a moment, it is not as if I had not had long years to think on in which we have been good friends enough.”

“Ay,” she said, turning from me and reaching some apples that yet hung on a sheltered bough, “I have heard the terms of that vow from my father, more than once.  You can keep it without trouble.”

“Have I your leave to try to keep it?”

“You have had full leave to be a good friend of ours all these years, as you say, and I do not see that the vow binds you to more.  No one thinks that you are likely to forget last night, or any one who took part in that cruel business.  And if a friend will not help to guard a lady—­well, he would be just nidring, no more or less.”