"Ho! ho'! So that's the way! He has begun that work early,
has he? What's your name, my lass? Oh, you need give yourself airs!
I cry you mercy," and she made a derisive curtsey.
Poor Aurelia, pride had less to do with her silence than absolute
uncertainty what to call herself. The wedding ring was on her finger,
and she would not deny her marriage by calling herself Delavie, but
Belamour might be dangerous, and the prefix was likewise a difficulty,
so faltered, "You may call me Madam Aurelia."
"Madam Really. That's a queer name, but it will serve while you are
here."
"Pray let me go to my room," entreated the poor prisoner, who felt as
ineffable disgust at her jailor, and was becoming sensible to extreme
fatigue.
"Your room, hey? D'ye think I keep rooms and beds as though this were
an inn, single-handed as I am? You must wait, unless you be too fine
to lend a hand."
"Anything will do," said Aurelia, "if I may only rest. I would help,
but I am so much tired that I can hardly stand."
"My Lady has given it to you well, Mistress Really or Mistress Falsely,
which ever you may be," mumbled Madge, perhaps in soliloquy, fumbling
at the lock of a room which at last she opened. It smelt very close
and fusty, and most of the furniture was heaped together under a cloth
in the midst, dimly visible by the light of a heart-shaped aperture in
the shutters.
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