"Under favour, I cannot sing."
"You cannot sing?" reiterated the countess, pausing in her work, and gazing at Murielle with her full black eyes, above which hung the wavy fringe of her absurdly lofty horned head-dress.
"I cannot sing that ballad—at least, just now."
"And wherefore?"
"I have forgotten it," said she, turning to the window.
"Do you remember when last you sang it?" asked Maud Douglas kindly, in a low voice.
"Oh yes, dear Maud," said Murielle, as her soft eyes filled with tears at the recollection of that night in the house of the abbot at Edinburgh, where—outwardly, at least—they all seemed so happy, and where her lover hung over her, as she played and sang for him, and him only.
The impetuous young countess, a little despot in her own household, grew weary of her sister's silence and reserve, for Murielle's attachment was no secret to the family; she tossed aside the tapestry, and desired Mariota, the Caillean Rua, to summon her pages and a musician, that they might dance and practise the pavan, which was a slow and stately measure then in fashion, and which took its name from the peacock, because it was danced by knights in their mantles and ladies in their trains; but Murielle said gently, but firmly, as she withdrew to a corbelled stone balcony, upon which the windows of the bower-chamber opened,—
"Excuse me, dear Maggie, I pray you; but I am not in the mood either to dance or sing."
Irritated still more by this, Margaret followed, and found her with her face bowed upon the parapet, and weeping bitterly.