Dim and misty the outlines of the hills looked in that uncertain gloaming; here and there a light gleamed from some peasant's hut, for the hour of eight had not yet struck, when, according to the curfew law, light and fire had to be extinguished. But our lone watchers saw them all disappear at last, and still the light they looked for shone not forth.
"Why does not the bale-fire blaze?"
"Baleful shall its influence be."
"Woman, one more question I have. Thou knowest my family woes, that I have neither kith nor kin to succeed me, no gallant boy for whom to win honour: two have I had, but they are dead to the world."
"The living death of leprosy."
"And one—not indeed the lawful child of my spouse—was snatched from me in tender infancy; one whom I destined for my heir: for why should that bar-sinister which the Conqueror bore sully the poor child. Thou rememberest?"
"Thou didst seek me in the hour of thy distress, and I told thee the child lived."
"Does it yet live? tell me." And the strong man trembled with eagerness and emotion as he looked her eagerly in the face.
"They have not told me; I know not."