"What of her?" exclaimed Jack, starting up. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. She attempted by a sheer act of will to end the scene, to will herself out of it anywhere. The struggle was brief, and Gerald stepped aside, the pistol in his possession, while the girl Melusine stood trembling and glaring.
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