The Forest Lovers

The first thing the old lady did was to go to an oak chest which was

in the room, and rummage there. With many grunts and wheezes (for she

was eaten with rheumatism) she drew out a bundle done up in an old

shawl. This she opened upon the floor.

"I belonged to a great lady once," said she, "though I don't look like

it, my dear. These fal-lals have been over as dainty a body as your

own in their day; and that was fifteen years ago to a tick. She gave

'em all to me when she took to the black, and now they shall go to my

son's wife. Think of that, you who come from who knows who or where.

If they fit you not like a glove, let me eat 'em."

There were silks and damasks and brocades; webbed tissues of the East,

Coän gauzes blue and green, Damascus purples, shot gold from

Samarcand, crimson stuffs dipped in Syrian vats, rose-coloured silk

from Trebizond, and embroidered jackets which smelt of Cairo or

Bagdad, and glowed with the hues of Byzantium itself. Out of these she

made choice. The girl shed her rags, and stood up at last in a gown of

thin red silk, which from throat to ankle clung close about her shape.

The dark beauty went imperially robed.

"Wait a bit," said her dresser; "we'll look at you presently when you

are shod and coifed to fit."

She gave her a pair of red stockings and Moorish slippers for her

feet; she massed up her black hair into a tower upon her head, and

roped it about with a chain of sequins which had served their last

chaffer at Venice; she girt a belt of filigree gold and turquoise

about her waist, gave her a finishing pat, and stood out to spy at

her.

"Eh, eh! there you go for a jolly gentlewoman," she chuckled, and

kissed her. "Give you a pair of sloe-black eyes for your violets, tip

your nails with henna red, and you'd be a mate for the Soldan of

Babylon in his glory. As you stand you're my bonny Countess Bel warmed

in the blood--as she might have been if Bartlemy had had no vigil

that one year."

They sat to table and ate together. The old dame grew very friendly,

and, as usual with her class, showed a spice of malice.

"There is one here, let me tell you," she said as she munched her

bacon, "even the lord of this town, who would be glad to know his way

to Litany Row before morning." Isoult paled and watched her

unconscious host; she knew that much already. "Yes, yes," she went on,

the old ruminant, "he hath a rare twist for women, if they speak the

truth who know him. There is one he hath hunted high and low, in

forest and out, they say, and hath made himself a lord for her sake,

whereas he was but a stalled ox in Malbank cloister. He hath made

himself a lord, and killed his hundreds of honest men, and now he hath

lost her. He--he!"