"He cannot tell me from a
monster," she fumed, letting herself sink into a faded tapestry chair,
standing forgotten amid a pile of mouldering cushions.
The three English girls, pressing timidly to her side, answered with
indistinct murmurs which she could interpret to suit her pleasure. The Danish
girl made her no reply whatever. Half kneeling, half sitting upon the
cushions, her head was already bent over the gallery's edge, and the scene
below had claimed her eye and ear to the exclusion of all else.
Whatever its shortcomings as a show-case, the balcony was excellently adapted
both for spectators and for eavesdroppers, its distance from the floor being
little more than twice a man's height, while the fire which doled its light so
stingily, lavished a glory of brightness on the spot where the King's massive
chair stood beside the chimney-piece. After one petulant glance, even
Elfgiva's pique gave way to a curiosity that gradually drew her forward to the
very edge of her seat and held her there, the three maids crouching at her
feet.
Encircled by a martial throng, so massed and indistinct that they made a
background like embroidered tapestry, three figures were the centre of
attention,--the figure of the young King in his raised chair, and the forms of
the Dane and the Angle who fronted each other before his footstool.
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