If only this child were his: what good times they would have together! The thought passed on, but it left a little ache in his heart. Over one of the pinnacles of the tower a speck of pallid light marked the position of the moon, then newly born and newly risen. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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