She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. Have you anything to ask me?” Ann Veronica readjusted her mind hastily. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. Wood will be intercepted. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously.
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