CHAPTER XIV.
It snowed in his house of meat and drink,
Of all dainties that men could of think;
After the sundry seasons of the year,
So changed he his meat and soupere.
Full many a fat patriarch had he in mew,
And many a breme and many a luce in stew;
Wo was his cook, but if his sauce were
Poignant and sharp, and ready all his gere,
His table dormant in his hall alway,
Stood ready covered all the long day.
_Prologue to Canterbury Tales_.
Three days had gone by since the return of the party from Evora. The
ladies had gotten over their fatigue, talked over their travels, and
wondered at seeing nothing of L'Isle. He had merely sent to inquire
after their health, instead of coming himself, as in duty bound. Lady
Mabel had confidently looked for him the first day, asked about him
the next, and on the third, feeling hurt at this continued neglect,
concluded that she had had enough of his company of late, and it did
not matter should she not see him for a month.
Meanwhile, what was L'Isle doing? He was busy reforming himself and
his regiment. On his return to Elvas he had met with several little
indications of relaxed discipline, and somewhat suddenly remembered
that he had not come out to Portugal to ride about the country,
escorting young ladies in search of botanical specimens, picturesque
scenes, and fragments of antiquity.
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