Now I understood at once that Irene desired my death, and, fearing to cause it, set the means of self-murder within my reach.
I thanked the man and begged him to give me the drug, which he did, whereon I hid it away in my garments.

When it was seen that I still lived although I had asked for the medicine, I think that Irene believed this was because it had failed to work, or that such a means of death did not please me.

So she found another.

One evening when a jailer brought my supper he pressed something heavy into my hand, which I felt to be a sword.
"What weapon is this ?" I asked, "and why do you give it to me ?" "It is your own sword," answered the man, "which I was commanded to return to you.

I know no more." Then he went away, leaving the sword with me.
I drew the familiar blade from its sheath, the red blade that the Wanderer had worn, and touching its keen edge with my fingers, wept from my blinded eyes to think that never again could I hold it aloft in war or see the light flash from it as I smote.