The wine was entirely gone, and the salted provision, which alone remained, made the misery of thirst almost unbearable.
On the cushions, richly embroidered in dainty Eastern colouring, lay Mabel de Hundberg, with dry lips half opened and panting, too weary to move, yet listening all intent.
Another moment, and in chamois leather coat, his helmet in hand, entered her brother from the turret stair, and threw himself down hopelessly, answering her gesture.
“No, no, of course no. The dust was only from another swarm of those hateful Saracens. I knew it would be so. Pah! it has made my tongue more like old boot leather than ever. Have no more drops been squeezed from the well? It’s time the cup was filled!”
“It was Roger’s turn. Sigbert said he should have the next,” said Mabel.
Walter uttered an imprecation upon Roger, and a still stronger one on Sigbert’s meddling. But instantly the cry was, “Where is Sigbert?”
Walter even took the trouble to shout up and down the stair for Sigbert, and to demand hotly of the weary, dejected men-at-arms where Sigbert was; but no one could tell.
“Gone over to the enemy, the old traitor,” said Walter, again dropping on the divan.
“Never! Sigbert is no traitor,” returned his sister.
“He is an English churl, and all churls are traitors,” responded Walter.