gun by submitting meekly, for she longed to live, and had ended,
for she was a shrewd woman, by throwing the stuff at the apothecaries'
heads. Now she ordained her own diet, which was of lamb's flesh lightly
boiled, and woman's milk, got from a wench in the purlieus of St.
Sauveur. The one medicine which she retained was powdered elk's horn,
which had been taken from the beast between two festivals of the Virgin.
This she had from the foresters in the Houthulst woods, and swallowed it
in white wine an hour after every dawn.

The bed was a noble thing of ebony, brought by the Rhine road from
Venice, and carved with fantastic hunting scenes by Hainault craftsmen.
Its hangings were stiff brocaded silver, and above the pillows a great
unicorn's horn, to protect against poisoning, stood out like the beak of
a ship. The horn cast an odd shadow athwart the bed, so that a big claw
seemed to lie on the coverlet curving towards the throat of her who
lay there. The parish priest had noticed this at his first coming that
evening, and had muttered fearful prayers.

The face on the pillows was hard to discern in the gloom, but when Anton
laid the table for the Cluniac's meal and set a lamp on it, he lit up
the cavernous interior of the bed, so that it became the main thing in
the chamber. It was the face of a woman who still retained the lines and
the colouring of youth. The voice had harshened with age, and the hair
was white as wool, but the cheeks were still rosy and the grey eyes
still had fire. Notable beauty had once been there. The finely arched
brows, the oval of the face which the years had scarcely sharpened,
the proud, delicate nose, all spoke of it. It was as if their possessor
recognised those things and would not part with them, for her attire had
none of the dishevelment of a sickroom. Her coif of fine silk was neatly
adjusted, and the great robe of marten's fur which cloaked her shoulders
was fastened with a jewel of rubies which glowed in the lamplight like a
star.

Something chattered beside her. It was a little brown monkey which had
made a nest in the warm bedclothes.

She watched with sharp eyes the setting of the table. It was a Friday's
meal and the guest was a monk, so it followed a fashion, but in that
house of wealth, which had links with the ends of the earth, the
monotony was cunningly varied. There were oysters from the Boulogne
coast, and lampreys from the Loire, and pickled salmon from England.
Ther