Martin knew of a boat there. He lifted her from the horse, turned
him loose, put Torfrida into the boat, and took the oars.
She looked up, and saw the roofs of Bourne shining white in the moonlight.
And then she lifted up her voice, and shrieked three times:
"Lost! Lost! Lost!"
with such a dreadful cry, that the starlings whirred up from the reeds,
and the wild-fowl rose clanging off the meres, and the watch-dogs in
Bourne and Mainthorpe barked and howled, and folk told fearfully next
morning how a white ghost had gone down from the forest to the fen, and
wakened them with its unearthly cry.
The sun was high when they came to Crowland minster. Torfrida had neither
spoken nor stirred; and Martin, who in the midst of his madness kept a
strange courtesy and delicacy, had never disturbed her, save to wrap the
bear-skin more closely over her.
When they came to the bank, she rose, stepped out without his help, and
drawing the bear-skin closely round her, and over her head, walked
straight up to the gate of the house of nuns.
All men wondered at the white ghost; but Martin walked behind her, his
left finger on his lips, his right hand grasping his little axe, with such
a stern and serious face, and so fierce an eye, that all drew back in
silence, and let her pass.
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