"How fares Shubenacadie?" he inquired over the claw she presented to him.
"Shubenacadie's feathers are curdled. He hath greatly soured. Confess me and give me thy benediction, Father Edelwald for I have sinned."
"Not since I took these orders, I hope," said Edelwald. "As a Capuchin I am only an hour old."
"Within the hour, then, I have beaten my swan, bred a quarrel amongst these spawn of the common soldier, and wished a woman hanged."
"A naughty list," said Edelwald.
"Yes, but lying is worse than any of these. Lying doth make the soul sick."
"How do you know that?"
"I have tried it," said Le Rossignol. "Many a time have I tried it. Scarce half an hour ago I told her forlorn old highness that the fort was surely taken this time, and I think she hath buried herself in her chest."
"Edelwald," said a voice from the tapestried pavilion. Lady Dorinda's head and hand appeared, with the curtains drawn behind them.
As the soldier bent to his service upon the hand of the old maid of honor, she exclaimed whimsically,—