Having feasted well, we should sleep
well. We have a hard day before us. With your consent, I shall place my
couch of grass near your door. I am the porter. You have but to call if
anything is desired."
She was tired, but she would have sat up all night rather than miss any
of the strange romance that had been thrust upon her. But Sir
Red-feather's suggestion savored of a command and she reluctantly made
her way to the flapping blanket that marked the entrance to the
bed-chamber. He drew the curtain aside, swung his hat low and muttered a
soft goodnight.
"May your highness's dreams be pleasant ones!" he said.
"Thank you," said she, and the curtain dropped impertinently. "That was
very cool of him, I must say," she added, as she looked at the wavering
door.
When she went to sleep, she never knew; she was certain that her eyes
were rebellious for a long time and that she wondered how her gray dress
would look after she had slept in it all night. She heard low singing as
if in the distance, but after a while the stillness became so intense
that its pressure almost suffocated her. The rush of the river grew
louder and louder and there was a swishing sound that died in her ears
almost as she wondered what it meant. Her last waking thoughts were of
the "black-patch" poet. Was he lying near the door?
She was awakened in the middle of the night by the violent flapping of
her chamber door.
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