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Whistler, Charles W. (Charles Watts), 1856-1913

"A Prince of Cornwall A Story of Glastonbury and the West in the Days of Ina of Wessex"

I saw that he looked anxious, and a little hope
of some fresh chance of escape stirred in me, though, as they had
carried me on board feet foremost, I could not see who came.
When they were close at hand their voices told me that one at least
was a lady, and that she and her companions were Welsh. I supposed
that this was the princess of whom I had heard Thorgils speak just
now. I should know in a moment, for the first footsteps were on the
long gangplank and pattering across it, while Evan began to smile
and bow profoundly.
Then there came past my litter, stepping daintily across the
planks, a most fair and noble lady, tall and black haired and
graceful, wrapped against the sea air in the rare beaver skins of
the Teifi River, and wonderful stuffs that the traders from the
east bring to Marazion, such as we Saxons seldom see but as
priceless booty, paid for with lives of men in war with West Wales
in days not long gone by.
She half turned as she saw me, and it gave me a little pang, as it
were, to see her draw her dress aside that it might by no means
touch me, no doubt with the same fear of fever that had been in the
mind of my friend at the first. But then she stayed and looked at
me and at Evan, who was yet cringing in some Welsh way of respect
as she passed. Her companions stopped on the gangplank, and they
were silent.


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