Even more did the floating water-grass hold her gaze--that bright green
grass that, rooted in the bed of the stream, sends its thin blades to
the surface where they float and wave like green floating hair.
Stooping, she would dip a hand in the stream and watch the bright clear
water running through the fingers of her white hand, then press the hand
to her lips.
Then again when day declined she would quit the stream to sit before the
blazing logs, staring at the flames. What am I doing here? she would
murmur. And what is this my life? When I was at home in Devon I had a
dream of Winchester, of Salisbury, or other great towns further away,
where the men and women who are great in the land meet together, and
where my eyes would perchance sometimes have the happiness to behold the
king himself--my husband's close friend and companion. My waking has
brought a different scene before me; this castle in the wilderness, a
solitude where from an upper window I look upon leagues of forest, a
haunt of wild animals. I see great birds soaring in the sky and listen
to the shrill screams of kite and buzzard; and sometimes when lying
awake on a still night the distant long howl of a wolf.
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