The sun was just rising in a flood of glorious light when she entered the suburbs of King Hudibras’ town—having previously resumed her stoop and hobbling gait.
The king was lazy. He was still a-bed snoring. But the household was up and at breakfast, when the witch—passing the guards who looked upon her as too contemptible to question—knocked at the palace door. It was the back-door, for even at that time palaces had such convenient apertures, for purposes, no doubt, of undignified retreat. A menial answered the knock—after wearisome delay.
“Is the Princess Hafrydda within?”
“She is,” answered the menial, with a supercilious look, “but she is at breakfast, and does not see poor people at such an hour.”
“Would she see rich people if they were to call at such an hour?” demanded the witch, sharply.
“Per—perhaps she would,” replied the menial with some hesitation.
“Then I’ll wait here till she has finished breakfast. Is the king up?”
“N–no. He still slumbers.”
“Hah! Like him! He was always lazy in the mornings. Go fetch me a stool.”
The manner of the old woman with her magnificent dark eyes and deep metallic voice, and her evident knowledge of the king’s habits, were too much for the menial—a chord of superstition had been touched; it vibrated, and he was quelled. Humbly but quickly he fetched a stool.