What had
happened to the low-ceiled dormitory with its bare wall-spaces splotched with
dampness? What had become of the row of white beds, with Dearwyn's rosy face
on the next pillow? And she herself--why was she lying on the outside of the
covers, with all her clothes on, a cramped aching heap? Rising on her elbow,
she gazed wonderingly at the frowzy woman stretched near her on a pallet. It
was not until the woman turned over, puffing out her fat cheeks in a long
breath, that the girl on the bed recognized her and knew what room this was
and remembered what had happened to separate to-day from all the yesterdays of
her life. Falling down upon the pillows, she lay with her face hidden among
them, living over with the swift sharpness of a renewed brain the scenes of
the previous night.
As she had seen it from the gallery where the King's soldiers had hidden her,
she saw again the great stone hail, enshrining a feasting-table around which a
throng of nobles in their gorgeous dresses and their jewels and their diadems
made a glittering halo. At the farther end, the King sat in his shining gilded
chair. Just below her, was Edric of Mercia with Norman Leofwinesson beside
him. She could not see their faces for their backs were toward her, but now
and again the Gainer's velvet voice rose blandly, and each time she was seized
with shuddering.
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