CHAPTER VI

Might we but hear The folded flocks penn’d in their wattled cotes, Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock Count the night watches to his feathery dames, ’Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. MILTON In the morning Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who came at an early hour. “Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma’amselle,” said she, as soon as she entered the room,—“fin…