Her few hours of sleep that night were wild and feverish, smitten through with piteous dreams. On the morrow she bound a black fillet about her brows, and let the dusky mask of lace fall over face and bosom. She prayed a long while before her crucifix, but she did not gaze again into dead Duessa's mirror.
That same evening Modred the seneschal blasphemed Aurelius in the garden of Avalon. The man of the sword was in no easy humour; his convictions emerged from his hairy mouth with a vigour that was not considerate.
"Dotard, you have no more wit than a pelican."
"My lord, I embrace truth."
"Damn truth; what eyes have you for a goodly close!"
Aurelius spread his hands with the air of a martyr.
"The physician, my lord," he said, "should ever deserve the confidence of his patron."
For retort, Modred shouldered him into the thick of a rose bush.
"Pedant," quoth he, "crab-apple, say a word on this matter, and I will drown you in the moat."
Aurelius gathered his robes and still ruffled it like an autocrat.