“O Sister Annora, I am so glad thou art come! I hate this sort of work, and Mother Gaillarde will keep me at it. I believe it is because she knows I detest it.”
“Thou art not just to Mother Gaillarde, Sister,” I said, and went on to the bed by the window.
“Annora, dear child!” said the feeble voice. Ay, she was weaker far than when I last beheld her, “Thank God I have seen thee yet once more.”
I could do little for her—only now and then give her to drink, or raise her a little. And she could not speak much. A few words occasionally appeared to be all she had strength for. Towards morning I thought she seemed to wander and grow light-headed. She called once “Isabel!” and once “Aveline!” We have at present no Sister in the house named Aveline, and when I asked if I should seek permission to call Sister Isabel if she wished for her, she said, “No: she will be gone to Marlborough,” and what she meant I know not. (Note 1.) Then, after she had lain still a while, she said, “Guendolen—is it thou?”
“No, dearest Mother; it is Sister Annora,” said I.
“Guendolen was here,” saith she: “where is she?”
“Perhaps she will come again,” I answered, for I saw that she scarcely had her wits clear.
“She will come again,” she saith, softly. “Ay, He will come again—with clouds—and His saints with Him. And Guendolen will be there—my Sister Guendolen, the Princess (Note 2), whom men cast forth,—Christ shall crown her in His kingdom. The last of the royal line! There are no Princes of Wales any more.”
Then I think she dropped asleep for a time, and when she woke she knew me at first; though she soon grew confused again.
“Christ’s blessing and mine be on thee, mine own Annora!” saith she, tenderly. “Margaret, too—poor Magot! Tell her—tell her—” but her voice died away in indistinct murmurs. “They will soon be here.”