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heavy ringlets. A silver-mounted solitaire gleamed on the
rim where it was turned up on the side. Her bodice
fitted smoothly, and her sleeves were tight to the elbow,
whence they hung, deeply slashed, held together by clasps
of mother-of-pearl and lined with flesh-colored silk. Wide,
close-meshed lace covered her bare arms. The robe trailed
a little behind, but was caught up high on the sides, falling
in rounded folds across the front, and revealing a black and
white diagonally striped skirt, which was just long enough
to give a glimpse of black-clocked stockings and
pearl-buckled shoes. She carried a fan of swan’s feathers and
raven’s quills.
Near the wicket she stopped, breathed in her hollow
hand, held it first to one eye then to the other, tore off a
branch and laid the cool leaves on her hot eyelids. Still
the signs of weeping were plainly to be seen. She went in
at the wicket and started up toward the castle, but turned
back and struck into a side-path.
Her figure had scarcely vanished between the dark green
box-hedges when a strange and sorry couple appeared in
the lane: a man who walked slowly and unsteadily as though
he had just risen from a severe illness, leaning on a woman
in an old-fashioned cloth coat and with a wide green shade
over her eyes. The man was trying to go faster than his
strength would allow, and the woman was holding him
back, while she tripped along, remonstrating querulously.
“Hold, hold!” she said. “Wait a bit and take your feet
with you! You’re running on like a loose wheel going down
hill. Weak limbs must be weakly borne. Gently now! Isn’t
that what she told you, the wise woman in Lynge? What
sense is there in limping along on legs that have no more
starch nor strength than an old rotten thread!”
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