Before her, green tree-lanes opened out like corridors. As far as the fireglow
could reach, they were flooded with golden light; where it stopped, they were
closed across by darkness as by gray-black doors. Within the sylvan alcove,
some four-score battle-stained warriors were taking their ease after a hard
day. Some of them were engaged in the ghastly business of bandaging wounds,
and some were already asleep; but the greater number lounged in the firelight,
drinking and feasting on strips of venison which serfs had cooked in the
flames.
Through the fog of her drowsiness Randalin recognized them slowly. Yonder was
the Englishman who had found her in the bushes. Beyond him, across the fire,
the soldiers who had lifted her up to the horse-man. Here, just in front of
her, was the leader himself. Her gaze settled upon him dreamily.
He had finished his meal, if meal it could be called, and was making some
attempt at a toilet. While one serf knelt beside him, scrubbing at his muddy
riding-boots with a wisp of wet grass, another held a gilt shield up for a
mirror, and before this the Etheling was carefully parting his shining hair.
His captive's eyes were not the only ones upon him, and the bright metal
showed that he was laughing a little at the comments his performance drew
forth from the three old cnihts lounging near him.
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