water running through the fingers of her white hand, then press the hand
to her lips.

Then again when day declined she would quit the stream to sit before the
blazing logs, staring at the flames. What am I doing here? she would
murmur. And what is this my life? When I was at home in Devon I had a
dream of Winchester, of Salisbury, or other great towns further away,
where the men and women who are great in the land meet together, and
where my eyes would perchance sometimes have the happiness to behold the
king himself--my husband's close friend and companion. My waking has
brought a different scene before me; this castle in the wilderness, a
solitude where from an upper window I look upon leagues of forest, a
haunt of wild animals. I see great birds soaring in the sky and listen
to the shrill screams of kite and buzzard; and sometimes when lying
awake on a still night the distant long howl of a wolf. Also, it is
said, there are great stags, and roe-deer, and wild boars, and it is
Athelwold's joy to hunt them and slay them with his spear. A joy too
when he returns from the hunt or from a long absence to play with his
beautiful wife--his caged bird of pretty feathers and a sweet song to
soothe him when he is tired. But of his life at court he tells me
little, and of even that little I doubt the truth. Then he leaves me and
I am alone with his retainers--the crowd of serving men and women and
the armed men to safeguard me. I am alone with my two friends which I
have found, one out of doors, the other in--the river which runs at the
bottom of the ground where I take my walks, and the fire I sit before.
The two friends, companions, and lovers to whom all the secrets of my
soul are confided. I love them, having no other in the world to love,
and here I hold my hands before the flames until it is hot and then kiss
the heat, and by the stream I kiss my wetted hands. And if I were to
remain here until this life became unendurable I should consider as to
which one of these two lovers I should give myself. This one I think is
too ardent in his love--it would be terrible to be wrapped round in his
fiery arms and feel his fiery mouth on mine. I should rather go to the
other one to lie down on his pebbly bed, and give myself to him to hold
me in his cool, shining arms and mix his green hair with my loosened
hair. But my wish is to live and not die. Let me then wait a little
longer; let me watch and listen, and perhaps some day, by a