And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. ‘You have no need to be afraid of us. Been in the wars with both the major and Capting Roding, I have,’ Trodger informed her loftily. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. Because of the Dance.
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