"You wish you could go in your own garments, Thekla, with jewels
on your fingers and a white horse to carry you on a pillion behind
your protector," the count said with a smile, for his spirits had
risen with the hope of his daughter's escape from the peril in
which she was placed. "It cannot be, Thekla. Malcolm's plan must
be carried out to the letter, and I doubt not that you will pass
well as a `prentice boy. But your mother must cut off that long
hair of yours; I will keep it, my child, and will stroke it often
and often in my prison as I have done when it has been on your
head; your hair may be long again before I next see you."
His eyes filled with tears as he spoke, and Thekla and the countess
both broke into a fit of crying. Leaving them by themselves,
Malcolm returned to his work, and in half an hour had replaced the
machinery of the clock and had set it in motion, while a tender
conversation went on between the count and countess and their
daughter. By this time the sun had set, and the attendant entered
and lighted the candles in the apartment, saying, as she placed one
on the table by Malcolm, "You must need a light for your work." No
sooner had she left the room than Malcolm said:
"I would not hurry your parting, countess, but the sooner we are
off now the better."
Without a word the countess rose, and, taking the clothes which
Malcolm produced from his doublet, retired to her chamber, followed
by Thekla.
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