Fru Astrida advanced to take his hand, speaking in a soothing voice, but he shrank and started with a fresh cry of terror—her tall figure, high cap, and wrinkled face, were to him witch-like, and as she knew no French, he understood not her kind words. However, he let Richard lead him into the hall, where Lothaire sat moodily in the chair, with one leg tucked under him, and his finger in his mouth.
“I say, Sir Duke,” said he, “is there nothing to be had in this old den of yours? Not a drop of Bordeaux?”
Richard tried to repress his anger at this very uncivil way of speaking, and answered, that he thought there was none, but there was plenty of Norman cider.
“As if I would taste your mean peasant drinks! I bade them bring my supper—why does it not come?”
“Because you are not master here,” trembled on Richard’s lips, but he forced it back, and answered that it would soon be ready, and Carloman looked imploringly at his brother, and said, “Do not make them angry, Lothaire.”
“What, crying still, foolish child?” said Lothaire. “Do you not know that if they dare to cross us, my father will treat them as they deserve? Bring supper, I say, and let me have a pasty of ortolans.”
“There are none—they are not in season,” said Richard.
“Do you mean to give me nothing I like? I tell you it shall be the worse for you.”
“There is a pullet roasting,” began Richard.
“I tell you, I do not care for pullets—I will have ortolans.”