It was a handsome stool, looted perhaps from some chateau
in the Old World, and over it was thrown a dark-red cloth which gave a
semblance of dignity to the seat of authority, which it was meant to be.
Fleda did not refuse the honour. She had choked back the indignant words
which had rushed to her lips as she left the tent where she had been
lying. Prudence had bade her await developments. She could not yet make
up her mind what to do. It was clear that a bold and deep purpose lay
behind it all, and she could not tell how far-reaching it was, nor what
it represented of rebellion against her father's authority. That it did
represent rebellion she had no doubt. She was well enough aware of the
claims of Jethro's dead father to the leadership, abandoned for three
thousand pounds and marriage with herself; and she was also aware that
while her father's mysterious isolation might possibly have developed a
reverence for him, yet active pressure and calumny might well have done
its work. Also, if the marriage was repudiated, Jethro would be justified
in resuming the family claim to the leadership.
She seated herself upon the scarlet seat with a gesture of thanks, while
the salutations and greetings increased; then she awaited events,
thrilled by the weird and pleasant music, with its touches of Eastern
fantasy.
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