Her eyes flashed and she withdrew the dagger, pulling away from him. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. "Is your master at home?" inquired the jailer. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Capes was something superadded. " "Have you told her?" "Told her? Told her what?" Spurlock sat straight in his chair. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. 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.
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