In her treatment of Louis she had seemed to show knowledge and a comprehension as wide as his own.

But if she knew all, could she be as calm as she was?
Could she go about her daily tasks?
Could she cut and lay and fetch with busy fingers, and all in silence?
He thought not; and though he longed to consult her, to assure her and comfort her, to tell her that the very isolation, the very peril in which they stood were a happiness and a joy to him, whatever the issue, because he shared them with her, he would not, by reason of that doubt.
He did not yet know the courage which underlies the gentlest natures: nor did he guess that even as it was a joy to him to stand beside her in peril, so it was a joy to her, even in that hour, to come and go for him, to cut his bread and lay for him, to draw his wine from the great cask under the stairs, and pour for him in the tall horn mug.
And little said.

By him, because he shrank from opening her eyes to the danger of their position; by her, because her mind was full and she could not trust herself to speak calmly.

But he knew that she, too, had fasted since morning, and he made her eat with him: and it was in the thoughts of each that they had never eaten together before.

For commonly Anne took her meal with her mother, or ate as the women of her time often ate, standing, alone, when others had finished.