She was going to open this one as a matter of course, when glancing at the
superscription she saw, or fancied she saw, that it was in a woman's hand.
She looked at it again. It was sealed plainly with a woman's seal; and she
looked up at Martin Lightfoot. She had remarked as he gave her the letter
a sly significant look in his face.
"What doest thou know of this letter?" she inquired sharply.
"That it is from the Countess Alftruda, whomsoever she may be."
A chill struck through her heart. True, Alftruda had written before, only
to warn Hereward of danger to his life,--and hers. She might be writing
again, only for the same purpose. But still, she did not wish that either
Hereward, or she, should owe Alftruda their lives, or anything. They had
struggled on through weal and woe without her, for many a year. Let them
do so without her still. That Alftruda had once loved Hereward she knew
well. Why should she not? The wonder was to her that every woman did not
love him. But she had long since gauged Alftruda's character, and seen in
it a persistence like her own, yet as she proudly hoped of a lower temper;
the persistence of the base weasel, not of the noble hound: yet the
creeping weasel might endure, and win, when the hound was tired out by his
own gallant pace.
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