“Why, good fellow, what shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?” asked poor Imogen. “Or what comfort shall I take in life when I am dead to my husband?”
Pisanio asked if she would like to return to Court, but Imogen declared she would have no more of Court, or father, or the clownish Cloten, who had so pestered her with his love suit. Pisanio said that if she would not stay at Court she could not remain in Britain, whereupon Imogen asked were there not other places in the world than Britain where the sun shone? In the volume of the world, the little isle of Britain was no more than a swan’s nest in a great pool.
Pisanio was glad she was willing to think of other places, and went on to suggest a scheme, daring indeed, but which Imogen was only too glad to accept. This was nothing less than that Imogen should disguise herself as a page, and seek service with the Roman Ambassador, Lucius; then she could go with him to Rome, where she would be living near Leonatus, and, even if she did not see him, she could hear hourly reports of his doings. Pisanio, with this end in view, had taken care to provide himself with the dress of a page, which he now handed over to Imogen. Lucius was to arrive on the following day at Milford Haven, and Pisanio advised Imogen to go there to meet him, and offer her services, which he would probably accept. Pisanio himself must now return to the palace, in case his absence should give rise to suspicion, but from the mountain-top where they stood he pointed out Milford Haven, and it seemed within easy distance. Finally, before taking leave, he gave Imogen the little box of drugs which the Queen had presented to him, telling her that it contained some precious cordial that would cure her if ever she were ill. So the faithful servant bade farewell to his dearly loved mistress.
“Best draw my sword.”
Poor Imogen set out with a brave heart on her perilous adventure, but the town that had looked so near seemed to recede as she walked towards it. For two days and nights she wandered on, almost spent with hunger, and making the ground her bed. At last she came to an opening in the side of the mountain, which looked as if it were used for some kind of habitation, for a path led to the low entrance. Imogen found it was a cave, evidently furnished for use. At first she was afraid to enter, not knowing what danger might lurk inside, but hunger made her valiant. She called, but no one answered.
“Ho! Who’s there? If anything that’s civil, speak. Ho! No answer? Then I’ll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy but fear the sword as I do, he’ll scarcely look at it. Grant such a foe, kind heaven!”
So, timid and quavering, in her boy’s tunic, with her short, broad-bladed sword gripped in her trembling hand, Imogen pushed aside the brushwood and entered the cave.
She had not long disappeared when the real owners of the cave approached. These were an elderly man of commanding presence and two noble-looking youths of twenty-two and twenty-three years old. In spite of their rustic and almost savage garb of hunters, there was an air of unmistakable distinction about all three; to the frank brow and free step of the mountaineer the lads joined a princely grace of bearing which told of high birth and noble breeding.