The horses, varlets, or my crutch will be
across you! Hush, Lydiard! Down, Pelamon! I can scarce hear my
voice for your yelping. Mary, a cup of wine for young Squire
Loring!"
She stood framed in the doorway, tall, mystic, silent, with
strange, wistful face and deep soul shining in her dark,
questioning eyes. Nigel kissed the hand that she held out, and
all his faith in woman and his reverence came back to him as he
looked at her. Her sister had slipped behind her and her fair
elfish face smiled her forgiveness of Nigel over Mary's shoulder.
The Knight of Duplin leaned his weight upon the young man's arm
and limped his way across the great high-roofed hall to his
capacious oaken chair. "Come, come, the stool, Edith!" he cried.
"As God is my help, that girl's mind swarms with gallants as a
granary with rats. Well, Nigel, I hear strange tales of your
spear-running at Tilford and of the visit of the King. How seemed
he? And my old friend Chandos--many happy hours in the woodlands
have we had together--and Manny too, he was ever a bold and a
hard rider--what news of them all?"
Nigel told to the old Knight all that had occurred, saying little
of his own success and much of his own failure, yet the eyes of
the dark woman burned the brighter as she sat at her tapestry and
listened.
Sir John followed the story with a running fire of oaths, prayers,
thumps with his great fist and flourishes of his crutch.
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