Ethel looked at her in astonishment, almost fear. Except her old nurse, who had died in her arms, this was the first woman she had seen within the gloomy walls of Munkholm.
“My child,” gently asked the stranger, “are you the daughter of the prisoner of Munkholm?”
Ethel could not help turning away her head; she instinctively shrank from the stranger, and she felt as if there were venom in the breath which uttered such sweet tones. She answered: “I am Ethel Schumacker. My father tells me that in my cradle I was called Countess of Tönsberg and Princess of Wollin.”
“Your father tells you so!” exclaimed the tall woman, with a sneer which she at once repressed. Then she added: “You have had many misfortunes!”
“Misfortune received me, at my birth, in its cruel arms,” replied the youthful captive; “my noble father says that it will never leave me while I live.”
A smile flitted across the lips of the stranger, as she rejoined in a pitying tone: “And do you never murmur against those who flung you into this cell? Do you not curse the authors of your misery?”
“No, for fear that our curse might draw down upon their heads evils like those which they make us endure.”
“And,” continued the pale woman, with unmoved face, “do you know the authors of these evils of which you complain?”
Ethel considered a moment, and said: “All that has happened to us is by the will of Heaven.”
“Does your father never speak to you of the king?”