At one of these--not one of the largest or handsomest, but far
superior to the old home at Sunderland--hung the large handsome
painted and gilded sign of the same serpent which Grisell had learnt
to know so well, and here the barge hove to, while two servants, the
man in a brown belted jerkin, the old woman in a narrow, tight, white
hood, came out on the steps with outstretched hands.
"Mein Herr, my dear Master Lambert. Oh, joy! Greet thee well.
Thanks to our Lady that I have lived to see this day," was the old
woman's cry.
"Greet thee well, dear old Mother Abra. Greet thee, trusty Anton.
You had my message? Have you a bed and chamber ready for this
gentleman?"
Such was Lambert's hasty though still cordial greeting, as he gave
his hand to the man-servant, his cheek to his old nurse, who was
mother to Anton. Clemence in her gentle dumb show shared the
welcome, and directed as Leonard was carried up an outside stone
stair to a guest-chamber, and deposited in a stately bed with fresh,
cool, lace-bordered, lavender-scented sheets, and Grisell put between
his lips a spoonful of the cordial with which Lambert had supplied
her.
More distinctly than before he murmured, "Thanks, sweet Eleanor."
The move in the open air had partly revived him, partly made him
feverish, and he continued to murmur complacently his thanks to
Eleanor for tending her "wounded knight," little knowing whom he
wounded by his thanks.
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