tongue lolling and his coat a cake of mire. The night had been chilly and the nostrils of the hard-ridden beasts made a steam among the lights we held, while above us the upper frontage of the house stood out clear between the growing daylight and the waning moon poised above the courtlege-wall in the southwest.
"Hey! Is that Paschal?" My Master turned as one stiff with riding. His face was ghastly pale, yet full of a sort of happiness: and I saw that his clothes were disordered and his boots mired to their tops. "Good luck!" cried he, handing the lady down. "We can have supper at once."
"Supper?" I repeated it after him.
"Or breakfast—which you choose. Have the lights lit in the hall, and a table spread. My lady will eat and drink before going to her room."
"'My lady'?" was my echo again.
"Just so—my lady, and my wife, and henceforward your Mistress. Lead the way, if you please! Afterwards I will talk."
I did as I was ordered: lit the lights about the daïs, spread the cloth with my own hands, fetched forth the cold meats and—for he would have no servants aroused—waited upon them in silence and poured the wine, all in a whirl of mind. My Mistress (as I must now call her) showed no fatigue, though her skirts were soiled as if they had been dragged through a sea of mud. Her eyes sparkled and her bosom heaved as she watched my Master, who ate
