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Updated: May 28, 2025
Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought only of them and of her. I wedded; nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness was not visited upon me.
So until almost midnight the entire seminary, realizing somehow that all rules were laid aside, crowded round Ermengarde in the schoolroom and heard read and re-read the letter containing a story which was quite as wonderful as any Sara herself had ever invented, and which had the amazing charm of having happened to Sara herself and the mystic Indian gentleman in the very next house.
"I have just had this letter from Sara," she said, holding it out to let them see what a long letter it was. "From Sara!" Every voice joined in that exclamation. "Where is she?" almost shrieked Jessie. "Next door," said Ermengarde, "with the Indian gentleman." "Where? Where? Has she been sent away? Does Miss Minchin know? Was the row about that? Why did she write? Tell us! Tell us!"
The queen, white as lilies, Who sang as sing the birds, Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, Ermengarde, princess of Maine, And Joan, the good Lorraine, Burned by the English at Rouen, Where are they, Virgin Queen? And where are last year's snows?
She felt as if she had never been quite so hungry before. "I wish I was as thin as you, Sara," Ermengarde said suddenly. "I believe you are thinner than you used to be. Your eyes look so big, and look at the sharp little bones sticking out of your elbow!" Sara pulled down her sleeve, which had pushed itself up. "I always was a thin child," she said bravely, "and I always had big green eyes."
But he gets another ship, and, in 1151, they set sail for the East, William, the bishop of Orkney, commanding one vessel. Passing down the east coast of England and through the Channel to France, they reach Bilbao in Spain, where Ragnvald lands, and refuses to marry Queen Ermengarde. Lawrence's Day, the 10th of August 1152.
The A B C children always remember what I tell them." "Oh, goodness!" said Ermengarde. "Do you think you could?" "I know I could," answered Sara. "I like to read, and I always remember. I'll take care of the books, too; they will look just as new as they do now, when I give them back to you." Ermengarde put her handkerchief in her pocket.
At that time it was noticed that Ermengarde was more stupid than ever, and that she looked listless and unhappy. She used to sit in the window-seat, huddled in a heap, and stare out of the window without speaking. Once Jessie, who was passing, stopped to look at her curiously. "What are you crying for, Ermengarde?" she asked. "I'm not crying," answered Ermengarde, in a muffled, unsteady voice.
"I am Boris," it read; "I serve the Princess Sara." There was nothing the Indian gentleman loved more than the recollection of the little princess in rags and tatters. The afternoons in which the Large Family, or Ermengarde and Lottie, gathered to rejoice together were very delightful. But the hours when Sara and the Indian gentleman sat alone and read or talked had a special charm of their own.
There was also a fat, dull pupil, whose name was Ermengarde St. John, who was one of her resources. Ermengarde had an intellectual father, who, in his despairing desire to encourage his daughter, constantly sent her valuable and interesting books, which were a continual source of grief to her. Sara had once actually found her crying over a big package of them.
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