Nurse, have a care for these scrolls. And if it
happen that the King's Marshal comes-- Randalin! Where is Randalin?"
Beyond Leonorine's embroidery frame and the stool where Candida bent over her
lyre, the length of the room away, a figure in iris-blue turned from the
window by which it stood.
"Here, lady. What is your need?"
To place the speaker Elfgiva raised her head slightly, laughing as she let it
sink back. "Watching for him already, and the sun but little past noon? For
shame, moppet! Come here."
"So please you, I was watching the rain on the roses," Randalin excused
herself with a blush as she came forward.
A merry chorus mocked her: "Is it to watch the roses that you have put on the
gown which matches your eyes, you sly one?"... "And the lilies in your hair,
sweet? Is it to shelter them from the rain that you wear them?"... "Fie, Tata!
Can you not fib yet without changing color?"
But Elfgiva raised an impatient hand. "Peace, chatterers!" she commanded; and
drawing the girl to her, she spoke low and earnestly in her ear.
Randalin looked up in surprise. "You will not see him, lady? Not though he
bring news of the doings in the Palace?"
"Heaven's mercy!" Elfgiva shrugged with a touch of scorn. "What abundance of
news he has found to bring since the day he fell in with you at even-song!"
Then she consented to smile faintly as she settled her head among the
cushions.
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