The shrouded figure in the chair burst suddenly into rapid hysterical talk in some foreign tongue which Dickson suspected of being French. Heritage replied in the same language, and the girl joined in with sharp questions. Then the Poet turned to Dickson. "This is my friend. If you will trust us we will do our best to save you." The eyes rested on Dickson's face, and he realised that he was in the presence of something the like of which he had never met in his life before. It was a loveliness greater than he had imagined was permitted by the Almighty to His creatures. The little face was more square than oval, with a low broad brow and proud exquisite eyebrows. The eyes were of a colour which he could never decide on; afterwards he used to allege obscurely that they were the colour of everything in Spring. There was a delicate pallor in the cheeks, and the face bore signs of suffering and care, possibly even of hunger; but for all that there was youth there, eternal and triumphant! Not youth such as he had known it, but youth with all history behind it, youth with centuries of command in its blood and the world's treasures of beauty and pride in its ancestry. Strange, he thought, that a thing so fine should be so masterful. He felt abashed in every inch of him. As the eyes rested on him their sorrowfulness seemed to be shot with humour. A ghost of a smile lurked there, to which Dickson promptly responded. He grinned and bowed. "Very pleased to meet you, Mem. I'm Mr. McCunn from Glasgow." "You don't even know my name," she said. "We don't," said Heritage. "They call me Saskia. This," nodding to the chair, "is my cousin Eugenie.... We are in very great trouble. But why should I tell you? I do not know you. You cannot help me." "We can try," said Heritage. "Part of your trouble we know already through that boy. You are imprisoned in this place by scoundrels. We are here to help you to get out. We want to ask no questions--only to do what you bid us." "You are not strong enough," she said sadly. "A young man--an old man--and a little boy. There are many against us, and any moment there may be more." It was Dougal's turn to break in. "There's Lean and Spittal and Dobson and four tinklers in the Dean--that's seven; but there's us three and five more Gorbals Die-Hards--that's eight." There was something in the boy's truculent courage that cheered her. "I wonder," she said, and her eyes fell on each in turn. Dickson felt impelled to intervene. "I think this is a perfectly simple business. Here's a lady shut up in this house against her will by a wheen blagyirds. This is a free country and the law doesn't permit that. My advice is for one of us to inform the police at Auchenlochan and get Dobson and his friends took up and the lady set free to do what she likes. That is, if these folks are really molesting her, which is not yet quite clear to my mind."