Dame Hilda was there, but she did not scold me. She turned as white as the sindon in her hand, and stood up.
“Dame Agnes, what mean you? Surely ’tis never thus! Holy Mary, shield us!”
And she hurried forth to the oriel window, where Jack was already perched.
The square had grown larger and plainer now. It was evident they were marching straight for the Castle.
Dame Hilda hastened away—I guessed, to confer with Master Inge—and having so done, she came back to the nursery, bade us put aside our sewing and wash our hands, and come down with her to hall. We all trooped after, Beatrice led by her hand, and she ranged us afore her in the great hall, on the dais, standing after our ages,—Kate at the head, then I, Maud, and Jack. And so we awaited our fate.
I scarce think I was frighted. I knew too little what was likely to happen, to feel so. That something was going to happen, I had uncertain fantasy; but our life had been colourless for so long, that the idea of any thing to happen which would make a change was rather agreeable than otherwise.
We heard the last loud summons of the trumpet, which in our ignorance we had mistaken for a hunting-horn, and the trumpeter’s cry of “Open to the King’s troops!” We heard the portcullis lifted, and the steady tramp of the soldiers as they marched into the court-yard. There was a little parleying outside, and then two officers in the King’s livery (Note 1) came forward into the hall, bowing low to us and Dame Hilda.
The Dame spoke first. “Sir Thomas Gobioun, if I err not?”
“He, and your servant, Dame,” answered one of the officers.
“Then I must needs do you to wit, Sir, that in this castle is neither Lord nor Lady, and I trust our Lord the King wars not with little children such as you see here.”