I was seven years old. My mother combed the ewes' wool, while my father was milking them with his usual concentration. My little sister slept in the wooden cradle by the crackling fire, and I was helping my mother find the small sprigs that were entangled in the rough wool.
A sudden gust of wind darted into my eyes when the door sprang open and the iron-clad knight, the Count **, broke in with two ...