new nothing
more.

At last, as one might waken after death, she breathed again, and felt
herself being lifted from a warm, sweet bath and held, naked as a new
child, on the knees of one who dried her softly with a towel of finest
linen that smelt of roses.

"See how clean, my lady! Everything has gone!" She heard the voice of
Alys, and peeped beneath her lids at where she had been plunged: it was
but a great silver bath, clear, now, to the bottom, and quite empty.

"Where are my clothes?" she whispered, feeling strangely light and
strong, "I am not cold any more; I can go on."

"Surely, if you will," said she whom they called the Countess, "but not
till you have eaten and drunk and had of us new wear in the stead of
that my bath has washed away."

And so, almost before she knew it, Alys and the old serving woman had
put on her soft, fine linen and a shot-silver robe, looped up with a
silver chain, and dressed her hair nobly. Over her neck and shoulders,
no longer smoothly full like her own, this countess fastened a sort of
cape of lace and silver, and on her feet the old woman fitted pointed
velvet shoes. She watched them gravely, tingling still from that strange
bath, trying to shape out in her mind what she would say to lead them to
explain to her the place she had fallen upon, and why they played this
pretty jest, and spoke and dressed so quaintly.

Now the Countess touched a silver bell and the old woman drew a heavy
curtain before the bath and the dais and placed a carved chair, and when
Alys had led her to it, the same youth appeared with a tray in his hand,
holding fine wheat bread and a graceful flagon of rosy wine and a
fragment of honeycomb. He knelt before her, seriously, with eyes never
raised above his silken knees, but his very presence moved her strangely
and she put her hand softly on his head when he said, "Will you eat,
madam, and refresh yourself?" and hastened to taste of all on his tray
before he could be offended.

"And now, Alys, where is your mistress?" she said, when her strength was
stayed and her eyes and voice bright again with the comforting wine,
"for I must talk with her."

"Presently, madam, presently," said the girl, "none may speak with her
at the moment, for she is gone to Mass--'tis the Count's name-day and
the night, too, when God and St. Michael took him, fighting, and we have
been out all day for holly for the chapel. We are all to go--will you
come with us?"

"No," she