"We have grown accustomed, sire," with another curtsy.
Sir Richard noted for the first time that the aged grandam's head, as well as that of her beautiful young companion, was uncovered.
"Yet ... 'tis parlous dank," said he, edging between them and the door.
"I have the honor to present to thy august notice, sire, my beloved granddaughter—Rocelia Tyrrell," dame Sutherland yielded.
Sir Richard knew not what he answered. He took her hand, he remembered afterward, turned instantly light-headed, and made out to salute it rather awkwardly with his lips.
When the young knight came to himself he was intently watching the door through which Rocelia had disappeared.
"I wonder whether her robe was of a color saffron?" he kept mentally repeating over and over again.