Sir Quixote of the Moors by John Buchan

I passed through the kitchen out to the stable, marking as I went that the breakfast was ready laid in the sitting room. There I saddled Saladin, grown sleek by fat living, and rolling his great eyes at me wonderingly. I tested the joinings, buckled the girth tight, and led him round to the front of the house, where I tethered him to a tree and entered the door.

A savory smell of hot meats came from the room and a bright wood fire drove away the grayness of the morning. Anne stood by the table, slicing a loaf and looking ever and anon to the entrance. Her face was pale as if with sleeplessness and weeping. Her hair was not so daintily arranged as was her wont. It seemed almost as if she had augured the future. A strange catch -- coming as such songs do from nowhere and meaning nothing -- ran constantly in my head. 'Twas one of Philippe Desportes', that very song which the Duke de Guise sang just before his death. So, as I entered, I found myself humming half unwittingly: