At home, or on Lashnagar,
or in the water she saw herself like Britomart in armour--always in
armour--while a knight rode at her side. When they came to dragons or
giants she was always a few paces in front--she never troubled to
question whether the knight objected to this arrangement or not. At
feasts in the palace, or when homage was being done by vast assembled
throngs of rescued people, he and she were together, and together when
they played. She had definitely dismissed the doctor's talk of natural
weakness. Not realizing all its implications she had nevertheless quite
deliberately taken on the man's part.
Then came a gipsy to the kitchen door one morning when Jean was in the
byre. It was a good thing Jean was not there or she would have driven
her away as a spaewife. She asked for water. Marcella gave her oatcake
and milk and stood looking at her olive skin, her flashing eyes, her
bright shawl curiously.
As she drank and ate slowly she watched Marcella without a word. At last
she said in a hoarse voice:
"You will go on strange roads."
"I wish I could," said Marcella, flushed with eagerness. "This place
is--"
"You will go on strange roads and take the man you need," said the gipsy
again.
Marcella glimpsed her splendid knight riding in at the gate with her,
and the farm-yard ceased to be muddy and dirty and decayed; it became a
palace courtyard, with glittering courtiers thronging round.
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