he durst not; she feared, if she did, that she would
curse her beauty, almost curse the name of love, curse Siur, though she
knew he was right, for not slaying her; she feared that she might curse
God.

So she thought not at all, steeping her senses utterly in forgetfulness
of the happy past, destroying all anticipation of the future: yet, as
they left the city amid the tears of women, and fixed sorrowful gaze of
men, she turned round once, and stretched her arms out involuntarily,
like a dumb senseless thing, towards the place where she was born, and
where her life grew happier day by day, and where his arms first crept
round about her.

She turned away and thought, but in a cold speculative manner, how it was
possible that she was bearing this sorrow; as she often before had
wondered, when slight things vexed her overmuch, how people had such
sorrows and lived, and almost doubted if the pain was so much greater in
great sorrows than in small troubles, or whether the nobleness only was
greater, the pain not sharper, but more lingering.

Halfway toward the camp the king's people met her; and over the trampled
ground, where they had fought so fiercely but a little time before, they
spread breadth of golden cloth, that her feet might not touch the arms of
her dead countrymen, or their brave bodies.

And so they came at last with many trumpet-blasts to the king's tent, who
stood at the door of it, to welcome his bride that was to be: a noble man
truly to look on, kindly, and genial-eyed; the red blood sprang up over
his face when she came near; and she looked back no more, but bowed
before him almost to the ground, and would have knelt, but that he caught
her in his arms and kissed her; she was pale no more now; and the king,
as he gazed delightedly at her, did not notice that sorrow-mark, which
was plain enough to her own people.

So the trumpets sounded again one long peal that seemed to make all the
air reel and quiver, and the soldiers and lords shouted: 'Hurrah for the
Peace-Queen, Cissela.'

* * * * *

'Come, Harald,' said a beautiful golden-haired boy to one who was plainly
his younger brother, 'Come, and let us leave Robert here by the forge,
and show our lady-mother this beautiful thing. Sweet master armourer,
farewell.'

'Are you going to the queen then?' said the armourer.

'Yea,' said the boy, looking wonderingly at the strong craftsman's eager
face.

'But, nay; let me look at you awhile longer, y