Editha nervously clasped and unclasped her hands.  “I got afraid it might be so.”

“Afraid, you simpleton?” The matron laughed excitedly, as she brushed all stray hairs out of her eyes and tightened her apron for action.  “It will become a great boon to her.  Since the Englishman’s death, she has been no better than a crazy Brynhild.  To take her out into the world and entertain her with new sights,—­it will be the saving of her!  Run quickly and tell her the tidings; and see to it that she puts on her most costly clothes.  Tell her that if she will also put on the ornaments Leif has given her, I will give her leave to stop embroidering for the day.”

Editha observed to herself, as she tripped away, that undoubtedly her mistress had already done that without waiting for permission.  And it proved very shortly that she was right.

In the great work-room of the women’s-house, among deserted looms and spindles and embroidery frames, Helga sat in dreamy idleness.  The whirlwind of excitement that had swept her companions away at the news of approaching guests, had passed over her without so much as ruffling a hair.  Her golden head rested heavily against the wall behind her; her hands lay listlessly upon her lap.  Her face was as white as the unmelted snow in the valleys, and the spring sun-shine had brought no sparkle to relieve the shadow in her eyes.

Without looking around, she said dreamily:  “It was one year ago to-day that I came into the trader’s booth in Norway and saw him sitting there among the thralls.”

Editha stole over to her and lifted one of her hands out of her lap and kissed it.  “Lady, do not be all the time thinking of him.  You will break your heart, and to no purpose.  Besides, I have news of great importance for you.  I have seen the ship that is coming up the fiord, and men say it is the vessel of your father, Gilli of Trondhjem.”

With something of her old fire, Helga snatched her hand away and started up.  “Do you know this for certain?  And do you believe that Thorhild will give me up to him?”

“Worse than that, lady,—­she is even anxious that he shall take you, thinking it will be to your advantage.”

For awhile Helga sat staring before her, with expressions of anger and despair flickering over her face.  Then, gradually, they died down like flames into ashes.  She sank back against the wall, and her eyes faded dull and absent again.

“After all, what does it matter?” she said, listlessly.  “I shall not find it any worse there than here.  Nothing matters now.”

Editha made a little moan, like one in sudden pain; hut it seemed as though she did not dare to interrupt the other’s revery.  She stood, softly wringing her hands.  It was Helga who finally broke the silence.  Suddenly she turned, an angry gleam replacing the dulness in her eyes.

“Did the ship bring more tidings of the battle?  Is it certain that King Olaf Trygvasson is slain?”