The Palace stood in the shade of that steeple,--
the real Palace, where the King sat deciding over the fate of his new
subjects, taking their lands from them, when he did not take their lives, and
banishing them across the sea to live and die in beggary. Her fingers tapped
the glass in desperation as she realized her helplessness even to get news of
his judgments.
"The King will never come to this rubbish heap," she told herself
despairingly. "Here we are buried no less than if we lay in a mound. It is not
likely that we shall get news by an easier way than by going to him."
Straining her eyes out over the mist-robed river, she tried for the thousandth
time to think of some bait alluring enough to tempt Elfgiva to that point of
daring. Hope the Lady of Northampton had every morning when she awoke and
looked in her mirror, and Wrath lay down with her every night, but the
rashness which had prompted her first attempt, Thorkel must have taken away
with him, a trophy tied to his saddle-bow. She made big plans and she talked
big words,--but always she put off their fulfilment until the morrow.
"At this gait, he could be dead and in his grave without my knowing it!"
Randalin cried in despair, and her voice made it quite clear that "he" no
longer meant the King. Since there was no one to see it, she even allowed her
head to fall forward on her arms, and let the ache in her throat ease itself
in a little sob.
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