Then at last, for the first time in so long, the children were alone. And they sank into chairs on either side of the dining-hall fireplace, wearily gaping at one another. Said Anne presently:
‘Well! did you ever?’
And Giles answered:
‘No, I never did.’
They were full of a thousand questions. But each knew the other could not answer them. So for a while they sat silent, lying back in the deep chairs and gazing at the glowing fire.
And there soon they must have fallen asleep. For the next thing they knew they were sitting on the floor, leaning against one another, terribly cold. There was no fire in the grate. The wind was blowing in through broken window-panes. Dust lay on the broken table and cobwebs hung from the dirty walls.
It was morning.
‘Giles! Giles!’ said Anne at last in a trembling voice. ‘Tell me: was I dreaming? Wasn’t there a great feast laid on the table here last night?’
‘Yes,’ said her brother, ‘and a company of grand people and—’
‘And a very beautiful and high-born lady,’ Anne added, springing up, ‘who brought a maid with her and slept upstairs in a bed of fine linen, with lace. Why—!’