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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"


So it was, and I looked round for my kind host, but he was not to
be seen. Outside the wind was still strong, but not what it had
been, for the gale was sinking suddenly as it rose, and into the
one little window the sun shone brightly enough now and then as the
clouds fled across it. There was a bright fire on the hearth, and
over it hung a cauldron, whence steam rose merrily, and it was
plain that my friend of last night was not far off, so I lay still
and waited his return.
Then my eyes fell on my clothes and arms as they hung from pegs in
the walls over against me, and it seemed as if the steel of mail
and helm and sword had been newly burnished. Then I saw also that a
rent in my tunic, made when my horse fell, had been carefully
mended, and that no speck of the dust and mire I had gathered on my
garments from collar to hose was left. All had been tended as
carefully as if I had been at home, and I saw Elfrida's little
brooch shining where I had pinned it.
That took me back to Glastonbury in a moment, but I had to count
before I could be sure that it was but a matter of hours since I
took that gift in the orchard, rather than of months. And I
wondered if Owen knew yet that I was lost, or if my men sought me
still. Then my mind went to Evan, the chapman outlaw, and I thought
that by this time he would have given me up, and would be far away
by now, beyond the reach of Thorgils and his wrath.


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