drowned by the incoming tide, and we were therefore never permitted to go down to the beach save when the tide was on the ebb.)
Triz, even by the time she reached the age of six, remained small and delicate in stature, with a gossamer fairness of hair and complexion; she ate like a bird and was sadly susceptible to colds and coughs. She must be watched at all times with the utmost vigilance lest she take a chill from damp slippers or stockings; so our excursions had to be confined to the warmest, mildest, most windless days. (Sometimes I used to sigh, recalling the immense walks I had undertaken with Mr Bill and Mr Sam, striding on for miles on miles, regardless of rain or wind.) But my outings with Triz had a charm all their own.
She loved me to tell her stories. At first I related all of those most clearly remembered from Dr Moultrieâs little chap-books, of Gold-Locks and the tale Jack the Giant-Killer, and that of Mr Philip Quarll, the English Hermit. But I soon ran through these and, Triz still demanding more, I bethought me of the strange tale that Mr Sam and Mr Bill had put together between them (though Mr Sam did by far the greater part); so, recalling as best I could and half-chanting such of the verses as returned to me, I took her through the adventures of the mariner and his unlucky mess-mates who sailed to the Southern Polar Regions, and how the hero killed the great sea-bird and of the fearsome fate that befell him. This tale kept her spellbound, and she asked for it over and over again. Then, as the addict calls for his laudanum, she demanded more and yet more, so I was constrained to fall back upon history, real or invented, and tell her the sagas I had read of Saxons and Normans, of Hereward the Wake and Robin Hood, of Joan of Arc and the British queen who fought the Romans. But her favourite amongst all these were the stories of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, which I had found in a book of Sir Thomas Malory among Dr Moultrieâs volumes. (This was the book I had soiled with jam, after which episode Dr Moultrie had never permitted me to lay fingers upon it again. But still I had such a vivid recollection of the stories â for I loved them as much as Triz did â that I was able to pass them on to her with every detail still burnished in my mind.)
Over and over I told her of the arm rising from the lake to catch the falling sword, when the wounded king lies dying on the field of battle, and how the ladies arrive in the magic barge to rescue him, and how he promises Bedivere that one day he will return to rule once more.
This was the part that Triz found full of such haunting appeal. And so did I, for that matter.
âI wonder what Sir Bedivere did after the barge had rowed away?â she would sigh. But that I could not recall; if I had ever known. âI wonder where he went? I wonder if he ever did see King Arthur again?â
Not very far eastwards of Nether Othery, as the crow flies, lay the great hill of Glastonbury, under which King Arthur is supposed to sleep, until the summons arouses him to come back to the help of his people. Mr Sam had once told me about this, and I told Triz.
âOh!â she breathed. âIf only we could go there! How I wish that I might see that place!â
In the meantime, we often played a game; that one of us was King Arthur and one Sir Bedivere. She, as Arthur, would give me her sword (a bulrush, plucked from the side of the pool in Kinn Hall garden) and I would promise to fling it into the pond, but would fail twice to do so because of the value of the jewels in the hilt; but at last, after bitter reproaches from the dying king, I would cast it out into the water. Then we would pretend to see the magical barge approaching, with seven queens all robed in black. (Here I clung to the stated number of three queens, but Triz insisted on seven.) Then she would pretend to climb, groaning, into the barge, and turn to say, âI will
Triz, even by the time she reached the age of six, remained small and delicate in stature, with a gossamer fairness of hair and complexion; she ate like a bird and was sadly susceptible to colds and coughs. She must be watched at all times with the utmost vigilance lest she take a chill from damp slippers or stockings; so our excursions had to be confined to the warmest, mildest, most windless days. (Sometimes I used to sigh, recalling the immense walks I had undertaken with Mr Bill and Mr Sam, striding on for miles on miles, regardless of rain or wind.) But my outings with Triz had a charm all their own.
She loved me to tell her stories. At first I related all of those most clearly remembered from Dr Moultrieâs little chap-books, of Gold-Locks and the tale Jack the Giant-Killer, and that of Mr Philip Quarll, the English Hermit. But I soon ran through these and, Triz still demanding more, I bethought me of the strange tale that Mr Sam and Mr Bill had put together between them (though Mr Sam did by far the greater part); so, recalling as best I could and half-chanting such of the verses as returned to me, I took her through the adventures of the mariner and his unlucky mess-mates who sailed to the Southern Polar Regions, and how the hero killed the great sea-bird and of the fearsome fate that befell him. This tale kept her spellbound, and she asked for it over and over again. Then, as the addict calls for his laudanum, she demanded more and yet more, so I was constrained to fall back upon history, real or invented, and tell her the sagas I had read of Saxons and Normans, of Hereward the Wake and Robin Hood, of Joan of Arc and the British queen who fought the Romans. But her favourite amongst all these were the stories of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, which I had found in a book of Sir Thomas Malory among Dr Moultrieâs volumes. (This was the book I had soiled with jam, after which episode Dr Moultrie had never permitted me to lay fingers upon it again. But still I had such a vivid recollection of the stories â for I loved them as much as Triz did â that I was able to pass them on to her with every detail still burnished in my mind.)
Over and over I told her of the arm rising from the lake to catch the falling sword, when the wounded king lies dying on the field of battle, and how the ladies arrive in the magic barge to rescue him, and how he promises Bedivere that one day he will return to rule once more.
This was the part that Triz found full of such haunting appeal. And so did I, for that matter.
âI wonder what Sir Bedivere did after the barge had rowed away?â she would sigh. But that I could not recall; if I had ever known. âI wonder where he went? I wonder if he ever did see King Arthur again?â
Not very far eastwards of Nether Othery, as the crow flies, lay the great hill of Glastonbury, under which King Arthur is supposed to sleep, until the summons arouses him to come back to the help of his people. Mr Sam had once told me about this, and I told Triz.
âOh!â she breathed. âIf only we could go there! How I wish that I might see that place!â
In the meantime, we often played a game; that one of us was King Arthur and one Sir Bedivere. She, as Arthur, would give me her sword (a bulrush, plucked from the side of the pool in Kinn Hall garden) and I would promise to fling it into the pond, but would fail twice to do so because of the value of the jewels in the hilt; but at last, after bitter reproaches from the dying king, I would cast it out into the water. Then we would pretend to see the magical barge approaching, with seven queens all robed in black. (Here I clung to the stated number of three queens, but Triz insisted on seven.) Then she would pretend to climb, groaning, into the barge, and turn to say, âI will
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