He seldom
spoke of his intention, but his mother was perfectly aware of it, and
never thought of it without such an agony of foreboding dread as
eclipsed all the hope that lay beyond. She could only turn away her
mind from the thought, and be thankful for what was still her own
from day to day.
"Art weary, my son?" asked Christina one October afternoon, as Ebbo
lay on his bed, languidly turning the pages of a noble folio of the
Legends of the Saints that Master Gottfried had sent for his
amusement. It was such a book as fixed the ardour a few years later
of the wounded Navarrese knight, Inigo de Loyola, but Ebbo handled it
as if each page were lead.
"Only thinking how Friedel would have glowed towards these as his own
kinsmen," said Ebbo. "Then should I have cared to read of them!" and
he gave a long sigh.
"Let me take away the book," she said. "Thou hast read long, and it
is dark."
"So dark that there must surely be a snow-cloud."
"Snow is falling in the large flakes that our Friedel used to call
winter-butterflies.
Pages:
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428