# The North Star/Chapter 52

LII NO LONGER BLIND
Two years had passed since Thorgills went to the Holy Land in search of King Olaf. In the quiet cloisters of the Convent of Nidaros, Maidoch led a busy, though secluded life. A few months after the defeat at Svolder, the news came from Iceland that the Christian religion had been formally adopted by the state. Closely following this was the return of Leif Ericson, from his voyage to the wonderful new land of the West. Leif had taken Bjarne’s ship and some of the crew that had been with Bjarne on his first voyage, and on the second trip they had remained some time in the new land, which they called “Vinland” from the quantity of grapes found there.
Aastrid, the abbess, heard these rumors with sadness in her heart; thinking how rejoiced King Olaf would have been at the entire conversion of Iceland, and at the reports of Leif Ericson finding again Bjarne’s beautiful land, to which the Faith might be carried.
“O my brave King!” the abbess said to herself, “thou didst make Leif a Christian, and thou didst bid him carry the tidings of Christ to this far land, ​and, O my King! thou hast not lived to see thy work accomplished.”
One evening the abbess knelt in the cloister church. The long absence of Thorgills, and his failure to return with any tidings of King Olaf, sorrowed her spirit. As she prayed, she remembered her noble kinsman’s zeal for the faith, and her own courage seemed to waver as she thought of Olaf’s defeat and his death in exile. Through the sad reveries of the abbess came a soft whisper, as from some distant region. Over the faintness of her spirit flowed like a refreshing and uplifting strain the sound of an echoing voice that seemed to say over and again: “Christ is eternal! Faith is deathless! Christ is eternal!”
As the abbess left the chapel she was told by the portress that a visitor desired to see her in the guestroom. Entering that quiet spot, where visitors were received, Aastrid saw sitting near the wall the figure of a pilgrim. His brown garb was travel-stained and faded. His sandals were well worn and dusty. His hood was drawn down over his brows, and covering his eyes was a broad bandage.
“Poor man!” thought the abbess, “he is blind or hath suffered some injury to his sight.”
Hearing her footstep, the pilgrim rose.
“Didst thou wish to see me, holy man?” asked the abbess.
The pilgrim stood with bowed head, as if unable to answer.
​The abbess asked with great kindness, “Is there aught I can do for thee?”
The pilgrim lifted his head. “Dear Lady Aastrid!” he said, “my dear Lady Abbess—”
The abbess started back with a faint cry of amazement.
“Thorgills!” she whispered. “Is it thou in the flesh, or art thou a spirit?”
“It is I—I in my weary body. It is I—in my sorrowful spirit.”
“And our Olaf—our noble-hearted king?” the abbess anxiously demanded.
The pilgrim shook his head sadly.
“Didst thou not find him?”
“Aye! I did find him, only to lose him. I found him in his hermit’s cell in the Holy Land, and there with these same eyes I did see him die,—our king! our brave-hearted Olaf, dying in a hermit’s cave!”
For a moment neither could speak. Then the abbess said gently: “It were well that thou whom he did love so strongly wert with him at the end. Peace to his soul!—our noblest and our bravest! And thou art blind, poor man?”
“I was struck with blindness and long illness in the desert. The fierce sun of Palestine did murder my poor sight.”
The pilgrim paused. A question trembled on his lips. At last he spoke, in a low, unsteady voice: “And she—my wife—my Maidoch? How fares it ​with her? How hath she filled her days since I did leave her? She is so young—”
“Aye!” said the abbess, a tinge of rebuke in her voice, “too young and too fair to have been left unguarded in this rough land. But God is good and hath shown her a shelter. Thou dost ask me how she hath filled her days? She hath taught the children; she hath comforted the sorrowful; and she hath cared for the sick and the dying. She hath relieved the poor in their misery.”
The pilgrim looked beseechingly at the abbess. She laughed softly. “Thou dost wish to see her? It is that doth stay on thy lips to ask? Then shall I bid her come to thee.”
Aastrid rose and opened the door at the end of the room. The pilgrim turned towards the adjoining room, and this was the picture that the open door revealed.
In the centre of a large apartment sat Maidoch, weaving. Around her were rows of little flaxen-haired children, and young maidens. Some were weaving, some spinning, some writing slowly upon parchment tablets.
According to the convent rule that nothing should interrupt the work in progress, Maidoch kept on at her weaving, without lifting her eyes to the door. The pilgrim drew his breath sharply. Could that noble lady, so composed, so queenly in her womanly beauty, be the little maid, the child almost, of two years ago? ​As the abbess shut out the picture in the closing of the door, the pilgrim turned to her pleadingly. “Dear Lady Abbess, I am not worthy to be her lord.”
“I have bade her come to thee as to a poor pilgrim and stranger.”
“I have dreamed of her,” said the pilgrim, very humbly, “under the stars at sea, and toiling over the mountain passes. In every strange land, I have dreamed and longed to find her. Sometimes I did believe she would not remain faithful tome. I have thought of her beside some powerful lord of Erik’s court.”
“As she might have been save that she would hear of no other lord save her wandering one; and of late, since the jarls of Erik’s court have spoken her name so often, she hath kept close to me, in this quiet shelter. Now will she come to thee, thinking of thee as some poor, blind, and homeless pilgrim, to give thee food and drink.”
The abbess turned and left the room. The pilgrim sank down in his seat. He trembled as if a chill had seized him, and his heart was throbbing quickly.
Softly the door opened. Maidoch, carrying some food upon a server, entered. She placed the food upon a table, and turning towards the pilgrim said:
“I have brought thee some refreshment, holy man.” The pilgrim rose with a start. As he stood up, Maidoch drew back, as if in fright. A faintness swept over her, swiftly followed by a rush of overpowering ​happiness. Thorgills! Her dear lord, at last! All the heart hunger of the past two years came over her and she stretched out her arms imploringly. “He is blind!” she told herself, as a sudden confusion brought the color to her cheeks. “He cannot see how overbold I have been.”
“I thank thee, noble lady,” said the pilgrim, “for thy refreshment. I have journeyed far and I am very weary.”
“Thou hast been to the Holy Land?”
“Aye! my feet have trod the streets of Jerusalem, and have pressed the rocks of Golgotha.”
“O blessed feet to have touched such holy soil!” Maidoch said, and kneeling down she kissed the pilgrim’s feet.
He started, and bent down to lift her up. “Nay! nay! sweet wife!” he pleaded, “thou must not so humble thyself.”
Maidoch drew back in confusion. “The lady abbess did say that thou wert blind, struck by the sun of Palestine.”
“So did I tell the noble lady, but I forbore to tell her that a learned Arab physician did restore my sight, but he counselled me to shield my eyes for some weeks with this covering.”
The pilgrim removed the bandage, and stood smiling at Maidoch’s confusion.
“Nay! sweet wife! draw not away from me now. I am not blind. God’s mercy hath let me see many ​fair things!” He moved forward, and drew Maidoch into his arms, laying her head upon his strong shoulder.
“O sweet wife, I see many things in this hour it were a joy to see. I see into the depths of thy true soul, and I feel upon my heart and upon my life the innermost sweet core of my white blossom.”
Maidoch could scarcely speak for the tumult of happy thought that encompassed her. She looked up at Thorgills, through her dark lashes, and spoke so softly that he had to stoop over to catch the faint sound. “My own dear lord! My own dear love!”
And Thorgills, in the rush of grateful tenderness, could find only an echo to her words:
“Heart’s life! My own dear love!”
FINIS
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