” “Why?” asked Hetty. ‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. The soldiers! They must not find her here.
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