"Your room, master," said Miguel Threegeese.
It was not so big as the hall where the bowmen sat, but it was a
goodly room. The bed was made of carved wood, for there were
craftsmen in the forest, and a hunt went all the way round it with
dogs and deer. Four great posts held a canopy over it: they were
four young birch-trees seemingly still wearing their bright bark,
but this had been painted on their bare timber by some woodland
artist. The chairs had not the beauty of the great ages of
furniture, but they had a dignity that the age of commerce has not
dreamed of. Each one was carved out of a single block of wood:
there was no join in them anywhere. One of them lasts to this day.
The skins of deer covered the long walls. There were great basins
and jugs of earthenware. All was forest-made. The very shadows
whispering among themselves in corners spoke of the forest. The
room was rude; but being without ornament, except for the work of
simple craftsmen, it had nothing there to offend the sense of
right of anyone entering its door, by any jarring conflict with
the purposes and traditions of the land in which it stood. All the
woodland spirits might have entered there, and slept--if spirits
sleep--in the great bed, and left at dawn unoffended. In fact that
age had not yet learned vulgarity.
When Miguel Threegeese left Morano entered.
"Master," he said, "they are making a banquet for you.
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