in a dress of forest green, with a small quiver by her side,
and a bow and arrow in her hand. Her hair, black and glossy as
the raven's wing, curled like wandering clusters of dark ripe grapes
under the edge of her round bonnet; and a plume of black feathers fell
back negligently above it, with an almost horizontal inclination,
that seemed the habitual effect of rapid motion against the wind.
Her black eyes sparkled like sunbeams on a river:
a clear, deep, liquid radiance, the reflection of ethereal fire,--
tempered, not subdued, in the medium of its living and gentle mirror.
Her lips were half opened to speak as she entered the apartment;
and with a smile of recognition to the friar, and a courtesy
to the stranger knight, she approached the baron and said,
"You are late at your breakfast, father."

"I am not at breakfast," said the baron. "I have been at supper:
my last night's supper; for I had none."

"I am sorry," said Matilda, "you should have gone to bed supperless."

"I did not go to bed supperless," said the baron:
"I did not go to bed at all: and what are you doing with that
green dress and that bow and arrow?"

"I am going a-hunting," said Matilda.

"A-hunting!" said the baron. "What, I warrant you, to meet with the earl,
and slip your neck into the same noose?"

"No," said Matilda: "I am not going out of our own woods to-day."