Out under the garden’s spreading fruit trees, the little gentlewomen of Elfgiva’s household were amusing themselves with the flock of peacocks that were the Abbey’s pets. In a shifting dazzling mass of color—blended blue and green and golden fire—all but one of the brilliant birds were pressing around Candida, who scattered largess from a quaint bronze vase, while the one whose vanity was greater even than its appetite was furnishing sport for Dearwyn as she strutted after him in merry mimicry, lifting her satin-shod feet mincingly and trailing her rosy robes far behind her on the grass. The old cellarer, to whose care the birds fell except during those hours when the brethren were free for such indulgences, watched the scene in grinning delight; and Leonorine laughed gaily at them over the armful of tiny bobbing lap-dogs, whose valiant charges she was engaged in restraining. The only person who seemed out of tune with the chiming mirth was the Lady Elfgiva herself. Among the blooming bushes she was moving listlessly and yet restlessly, and each rose she plucked was speedily pulled to pieces in her nervous fingers. A particularly furious outburst from the dogs, followed by peals of ringing laughter, brought her foot down in a stamp of utter exasperation. “Will you not observe my feelings, if you have none of your own?” she demanded. “Leonorine, take those wretched dogs out of my hearing. Dearwyn, lay aside your nonsense and go ask Gurth if he has heard anything yet of Teboen.” She stamped again, angrily, as her eye went from one to another of the merry-makers. “I suppose it would gladden all of you to feel safe from her hand, but I will plainly tell you that if harm has happened to her, you will find a lair-bear pleasanter company than I shall be.” The dull red that mottled her face and neck was a danger signal whose warning her attendants had learned to heed, and they scattered precipitately. Only the old cellarer, herding his gorgeous flock with waving arms, ventured to address her. “Is it the British woman you are enquiring after, lady? The woman who comes to the lane-gate, of a morning, to get new milk for your drinking?” Elfgiva turned quickly. “Yes,—Teboen my nurse. Have you seen her?” “I saw her between cockcrowing and dawn, noble one, when I let down the bars for the cattle to come in to the milking. The herd-boy who drives them said something to her,—it seemed to me that he named a Danish name and said that person was waiting in the wood to speak with her,—whereat she set down her pitcher and went up the lane. I have not seen her since.” The lady’s little white hands beat the air like a frightened child’s. “Three candles have burned out since then; it is certain that evil has befallen her. Never since I was born has she left me for so long. I—” She paused to gaze eagerly toward a figure that at this moment appeared in the low arch of the door-way. “Tata! do you bring me news of her?”