The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. He was halfway across the ballroom, where the dancing had ceased for the musicians to take a well-earned rest, when Roding pounced on him. "Quilt Arnold, is that you?" "It is, Sir," sputtered the janizary. Had Valade been to see him? Possibly even yesterday when he was followed by some young lad—and the girl, of course. O'Higgins did not confide in me. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify.
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