’ Chapter Six Creeping along the dark narrow passage, with lantern held well ahead to keep her step steady on the uneven stones—and to warn her of the advent of rats— Melusine kept her long petticoats fastidiously clear of the dirt with an efficient hand, a habit she had learned in the convent. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. I like you very much, I haven’t known you enough to love you, no matter how worthy you are of love.
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