“Storm or no storm, Will, my lord shall not find us unprepared. Maidens, attend me.” And she swept from the tapestried reception-room, followed by her daughters and the noble maids who did probationary service under her, and soon her silver whistle might be heard, as one or other did her bidding, and all below-stairs was speed and bustle—and covert fear.
The hours sped. The storm seemed to abate. The board was spread. The time for the evening meal came and went.
There were no arrivals. There were whisperings among hungry guests, for time was flying.
Squire Harpur paced the rush-strewn floor impatiently, biting his nails and cogitating.
The dark came down—the double dark of storm and evening. The great time-candle in its sheltering lanthorn burnt the quarters down, and the hours.
Villagers came scurrying to the hall in dismay. The meads were under water. Their fresh-cut hay was floating down the stream, with many a tree and bush from parts beyond in the west.
The lovely sisters had busked themselves afresh to receive their lovers; dark tresses and fair were coiled in golden nets, and on each bosom shone her token cross of gold.
But as the hours and minutes flew, dress was disregarded, their lips quivered with anxiety.
At length Avice whispered to her mother, “Had we not best set a cresset burning on the watch-tower, and send torch-bearers to light the passage of the ford?”
“I have already given orders, child; I feared to speak my alarm to you.”