When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. “Idiot!” She raged inwardly while she walked along with that air of self-contained serenity that is proper to a young lady of nearly two-and-twenty under the eye of the world. Those who lived outside the law might squabble among themselves, even unto death, Leonardo told her. Earles was absolutely indifferent. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. I was given no sword and shield and forced into the ring with a dozen armored warriors with full weaponry. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. And you promised to tell me. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. It had been her home for hundreds of years. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop.
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