"You fare well at the Inn of the Hawk and Raven," she said to him, her
voice tremulous with excitement. He looked mournfully at her for a
moment and then smiled naively.
"It is the first wholesome meal we have had in two days," he replied.
"You don't mean it!"
"Yes. We were lucky with the guns to-day. Fate was kind to us--and to
you, for we are better prepared to entertain royalty to-day than at any
time since I have been in the hills of Graustark."
"Then you have not always lived in Graustark?"
"Alas, no, your highness. I have lived elsewhere."
"But you were born in the principality?"
"I am a subject of its princess in heart from this day forth, but not by
birth or condition. I am a native of the vast domain known to a few of
us as Circumstance," and he smiled rather recklessly.
"You are a poet, a delicious poet," cried Beverly, forgetting herself in
her enthusiasm.
"Perhaps that is why I am hungry and unshorn. It had not occurred to me
in that light. When you are ready to retire, your highness," he said,
abruptly rising, "we shall be pleased to consider the Inn of the Hawk
and Raven closed for the night. Having feasted well, we should sleep
well. We have a hard day before us. With your consent, I shall place my
couch of grass near your door. I am the porter. You have but to call if
anything is desired."
She was tired, but she would have sat up all night rather than miss any
of the strange romance that had been thrust upon her. But Sir
Red-feather's suggestion savored of a command and she reluctantly made
her way to the flapping blanket that marked the entrance to the
bed-chamber. He drew the curtain aside, swung his hat low and muttered a
soft goodnight.
"May your highness's dreams be pleasant ones!" he said.
"Thank you," said she, and the curtain dropped impertinently. "That was
very cool of him, I must say," she added, as she looked at the wavering
door.
When she went to sleep, she never knew; she was certain that her eyes
were rebellious for a long time and that she wondered how her gray dress
would look after she had slept in it all night. She heard low singing as
if in the distance, but after a while the stillness became so intense
that its pressure almost suffocated her. The rush of the river grew
louder and louder and there was a swishing sound that died in her ears
almost as she wondered what it meant. Her last waking thoughts were of
the "black-patch" poet. Was he lying near the door?