Here lived Charles the page, Peter the old falconer,
Red Swire who had followed Nigel's grandfather to the Scottish
wars, Weathercote the broken minstrel, John the cook, and other
survivors of more prosperous days, who still clung to the old
house as the barnacles to some wrecked and stranded vessel.
One evening about a week after the breaking of the yellow horse,
Nigel and his grandmother sat on either side of the large empty
fireplace in this spacious apartment. The supper had been
removed, and so had the trestle tables upon which it had been
served, so that the room seemed bare and empty. The stone floor
was strewed with a thick layer of green rushes, which was swept
out every Saturday and carried with it all the dirt and debris of
the week. Several dogs were now crouched among these rushes,
gnawing and cracking the bones which had been thrown from the
table. A long wooden buffet loaded with plates and dishes filled
one end of the room, but there was little other furniture save
some benches against the walls, two dorseret chairs, one small
table littered with chessmen, and a great iron coffer. In one
corner was a high wickerwork stand, and on it two stately falcons
were perched, silent and motionless, save for an occasional
twinkle of their fierce yellow eyes.
But if the actual fittings of the room would have appeared scanty
to one who had lived in a more luxurious age, he would have been
surprised on looking up to see the multitude of objects which were
suspended above his head.
Pages:
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63