on measured the man through
her lashes. He might have been of the same material as his spear for all
the sign he showed of yielding. She could not understand such defiance,
and, like mysteries in general, it awed even while it angered her.
Affecting to draw herself up in disdain, she really gave back a step.
"Perhaps it would be wise to put off our visit until a day that there is
a man at the door instead of a blockhead--"

Randalin's arm was an iron barrier behind her. "Now I do not know where
you think the power to do that will come from!" she hissed in her ear.
"Do you not see that if you go back to your grooms and let them know
that you have not got enough honor with the King to gain an entrance,
they will never dare do your bidding again? Do you not see that you must
do one of two things, or now win, or now lose?"

Apparently Elfgiva saw. After a moment's bridling, she whirled back
with an angry flounce of her draperies. "The gallery, then, dog! I shall
reach my lord's ear from that, which will be an unlucky thing for you."

Saluting in silence, the guard drew back to let her pass, at the same
time signing to a row of men-at-arms standing motionless as pillars
against the stone wall of the ante-room. With a rattle and clank they
came to life, and the little band of five kirtles, surrounded and led,
was marched to a low side-door which gave in upon a short flight of
stone steps, white-frosted now with the dampness and their distance from
the fire. At the head of the flight, another door gave entrance to
a narrow passage that probably reached the length of the hall below,
though it seemed to the shivering women to extend the length of the
Palace itself. A third door, ending this corridor, admitted them to the
gallery that ran across the upper end of the hall.

As she passed the threshold Elfgiva exclaimed in vexation, for the
light of the log fire, whose rudely carved chimney-piece broke the long
side-wall, succumbed at the balcony's lower edge to the shadows of the
raftered ceiling, and all above was wrapped in soft twilight. "He cannot
tell me from a monster," she fumed, letting herself sink into a faded
tapestry chair, standing forgotten amid a pile of mouldering cushions.

The three English girls, pressing timidly to her side, answered with
indistinct murmurs which she could interpret to suit her pleasure. The
Danish girl made her no reply whatever. Half kneeling, half sitting upon
the cushions, her head was