[Vimcdoc-translate] "You paint a dreary world, my Prince." "My

[Perham <iro...@so...>]

Te nor on report credit. There you were! these English had no
imagination. The Queen snapped her fingers and said: "Very willingly
will I be your wife, my Osmund. But how do I know that I can trust you?
Leicester would give a deal for me; he would pay any price for the pious
joy of burning the Sorceress of Provence. And you are not wealthy, I
suspect." "You may trust me, mon bel esper,"--his eyes here were those
of a beaten child--"because my memory is better than yours." Messire
Osmund Heleigh gathered his papers into a neat pile. "This room is mine.
To-night I keep guard in the corridor, madame. We will start at dawn."
When he had gone, Dame Alianora laughed contentedly. "Mon bel esper! my
fairest hope! The man called me that in his verses--thirty years ago!
Yes, I may trust you, my poor Osmund." So they set out at cockcrow. He
had procured for himself a viol and a long falchion, and had somewhere
got suitable clothes for the Queen; and in their aging but decent garb
the two approached near enough to the appearance of what they desired to
be th