"Weathercote has indeed had an apt pupil!" she said. "I pray you
that you will sing again."
"Nay, dear dame, it is turn and turn betwixt you and me. I beg
that you will recite a romance, you who know them all. For all
the years that I have listened I have never yet come to the end of
them, and I dare swear that there are more in your head than in
all the great books which they showed me at Guildford Castle. I
would fain hear `Doon of Mayence,' or `The Song of Roland,' or
`Sir Isumbras.'"
So the old dame broke into a long poem, slow and dull in the
inception, but quickening as the interest grew, until with darting
hands and glowing face she poured forth the verses which told of
the emptiness of sordid life, the beauty of heroic death, the high
sacredness of love and the bondage of honor. Nigel, with set,
still features and brooding eyes, drank in the fiery words, until
at last they died upon the old woman's lips and she sank back
weary in her chair.
Nigel stooped over her and kissed her brow. "Your words will ever
be as a star upon my path," said he. Then, carrying over the
small table and the chessmen, he proposed that they should play
their usual game before they sought their rooms for the night.
But a sudden and rude interruption broke in upon their gentle
contest. A dog pricked its ears and barked. The others ran
growling to the door.
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