The bed was a noble thing of ebony, brought by the Rhine road from Venice, and carved with fantastic hunting scenes by Hainault craftsmen.Its hangings were stiff brocaded silver, and above the pillows a great unicorn's horn, to protect against poisoning, stood out like the beak of a ship.The horn cast an odd shadow athwart the bed, so that a big claw seemed to lie on the coverlet curving towards the throat of her who lay there.The parish priest had noticed this at his first coming that evening, and had muttered fearful prayers.
The face on the pillows was hard to discern in the gloom, but when Anton laid the table for the Cluniac's meal and set a lamp on it, he lit up the cavernous interior of the bed, so that it became the main thing in the chamber.It was the face of a woman who still retained the lines and the colouring of youth.The voice had harshened with age, and the hair was white as wool, but the cheeks were still rosy and the grey eyes still had fire.Notable beauty had once been there.The finely arched brows, the oval of the face which the years had scarcely sharpened, the proud, delicate nose, all spoke of it.It was as if their possessor recognised those things and would not part with them, for her attire had none of the dishevelment of a sickroom.Her coif of fine silk was neatly adjusted, and the great robe of marten's fur which cloaked her shoulders was fastened with a jewel of rubies which glowed in the lamplight like a star.
Something chattered beside her.It was a little brown monkey which had made a nest in the warm bedclothes.