apartment, into which the westering sun was casting his last beams of
liquid light; tears had stained her cheeks and reddened her eyes, but
she looked beautiful as ever, like the poet's or painter's conception of
the goddess of love. Around her were numerous evidences of a woman's
delicate tastes, of tastes too in advance of her day. The harp, which
Edwy had given her the day of their inauspicious union, stood in one
corner of the apartment; richly ornamented manuscripts lay scattered
about--not, as usual, legends of the saints, and breviaries, but the
writings of the heathen poets, especially those who sang most of love:
for she was learned in such lore.

At last the well-known step was heard approaching, and her heart beat
violently. Edwy entered, his face bearing the traces of his mental
struggle; he threw himself down upon a couch, and did not speak for some
few moments. She arose and stood beside him.

"Edwy, my lord, you are ill at ease."

"I am indeed, Elgiva; oh! if you knew what I have had to endure this day!"

"I know it all, my Edwy; you cannot sacrifice your Elgiva, but she can
sacrifice herself."

"Elgiva! what do you mean?"

"You have to choose between your country and your wife; she has made the
choice for you."

Here she strove violently to repress her emotion.