All night the King sate in his chamber holding council with his generals and ordering all things for the morrow. All night long he closed not his eyes an instant, but the others he made sleep by turns because they should be brisk and ready for the battle. For this was their counsel, to draw out their whole army on the left bank before the bridge-gate and there offer battle to the Demons at point of day. For if they should abide within doors and suffer the Demons to cut young Heming off from the bridge-gate, then were he lost, and if the bridge-house should fall and the bridge, then might the Demons lightly ship what force they pleased to the right bank and so closely invest them in Carcë. Of an attack on the right bank they had no fear, well knowing themselves able to sit within doors and laugh at them, since the walls were there inexpugnable. But if a battle were now brought about before the bridge-gate as they were minded, and Heming should join in the fight from the eastward, there was good hope that they should be able to crumple up the battle of the Demons, driving them in upon their centre from the west whilst Heming smote them on the other part. Whereby these should be cast into a great rout and confusion and not be able to escape away to their ships, but there in the fenlands before Carcë should be made a prey unto the Witches.
When it was the cold last hour before the dawn the generals took from the King their latest commands ere they drew forth their armies. Corinius came forth first from the King’s chamber a little while before the rest. In the draughty corridor the lamps swung and smoked, making an uncertain windy light. Corinius espied by the stair-head the Lady Sriva standing, whether watching to bid her father adieu or but following idle curiosity. Whichever it were, not a fico gave he for that, but coming swiftly upon her whisked her aside into an alcove where the light was barely enough to let him see the pale shimmer of her silken gown, dark hair pinned loosely up in deep snaky coils, and dark eyes shining. “My witty false one, have I caught thee? Nay, fight not. Thy breath smells like cinnamon. Kiss me, Sriva.”
“I’ll not!” said she, striving to escape. “Naughty man, am I used thus?” But finding she got nought by struggling, she said in a low voice, “Well, if thou bring back Demonland to-night, then, let’s hold more chat.”
“Harken to the naughty traitress,” said he, “that but last night didst do me some uncivil discourtesies, and now speaketh me fair: and what a devil for? if not ’cause herseemeth I’ll likely not come back after this day’s fight. But I’ll come back, mistress kiss-and-be-gone; ay, by the Gods, and I’ll have my payment too.”
His lips fed deep on her lips, his strong and greedy hands softly mastered her against her will, till with a little smothered cry she embraced him, bruising her tender body against the armour he was girt withal. Between the kisses she whispered, “Yes, yes, to-night.” Surely he damned spiteful fortune, that sent him not this encounter but an half-hour sooner.
When he was departed, Sriva remained in the shadow of the alcove to set in order her hair and apparel, not a little disarrayed in that hot wooing. Out of which darkness she had convenience to observe the leave-taking of Prezmyra and her lord as they came down that windy corridor and paused at the head of the stairs.
Prezmyra had her arm in his. “I know where the Devil keepeth his tail, madam,” said Corund. “And I know a very traitor when I see him.”
“When didst thou ever yet fare ill by following of my counsel, my lord?” said Prezmyra. “Or did I refuse thee ever any thing thou didst require me of? These seven years since I put off my maiden zone for thee; and twenty kings sought me in sweet marriage, but thee I preferred before them all, seeing the falcon shall not mate with popinjays nor the she-eagle with swans and bustards. And will you say nay to me in this?”
She stood round to face him. The pupils of her great eyes were large in the doubtful lamplight, swallowing their green fires in deep pools of mystery and darkness. The rich and gorgeous ornaments of her crown and girdle seemed but a poor casket for that matchless beauty which was hers: her face, where every noble and sweet quality and every thing desirable of earth or heaven had framed each feature to itself: the glory of her hair, like the red sun’s glory: her whole body’s poise and posture, like a stately bird’s new-lighted after flight.
“Though it be very rhubarb to me,” said Corund, “shall I say nay to thee this tide? Not this tide, my Queen.”