She was very fair to look upon, slim, yet spirited as a band of steel. Her ears shone out from her dusky hair like apple blossoms in a mist of leaves. Her lips were blood-red, sensitive, clean as the petals of a rose. Her great grief had chastened her. From the curve of her neck to the delicate strength of her white hands, she was as rich an idyll as a man could desire. Fulviac considered her with a thought that leant philosophically towards her beauty. He had grown weary of love in his time; the passions of youth had burnt to dry ashes; possibly he had been luckless in his knowledge of the sex. He had married a wife of irreproachable birth, a lady with a sharp nose and a lipless mouth, eyes of green, and a most unholy temper. She was dead, had been dead many years. The man had no delirious desire to meet her again in heaven. As for this girl, he had need of her for revolutionary reasons, and his mood to her was more that of a father. Her spirit pleased him. Moreover, he knew what he knew. Gazing at the flames, he spread his hands to them, and entered again on the confines of debate. His voice had the steady, rhythmic insistence of a bell pealing a curfew. Its tone was that of a man not willing to be gainsaid. "Therefore, madame, I would have you understand that I desire in some measure to be a benefactor to the human race." "I take your word for it," she answered him. "That I am an ambitious man, somewhat vain towards fame, one that can glow in soul." "A human sun." "So." "That loves to be thought great through warming the universe." "Madame, you are epigrammatic." "Or enigmatic, messire." "As you will," he answered her; "your womanhood makes you an enigma; it is your birthright. Understand that I possess power." "Fifty cut-throats tied to a purse." "Consider me a serious figure in the world’s sum." "As you will, messire. You are an outlaw, a leader of fifty vagabonds, a man with ideals as to the establishing of justice. You are going to subvert the country. Very good. I have learnt my lesson. But how is all this going to help me out of the wood?" Fulviac took his sword, and balanced it upon his wrist. The red light from the fire flashed on the swaying steel. "Our hopes are more near of kin, madame, than you imagine." "Well?" "Flavian of Gambrevault’s raiders burnt your home, slew your father, exterminated your brethren. This happened but a day ago. You do not love this Flavian of Gambrevault." Her whole figure stiffened spasmodically as at the prick of a sword. Her eyes, with widely open pupils, flashed up to Fulviac’s face. She questioned him through her set teeth with a passionate whisper of desire. "How do you know this?" His face mellowed; the arm bearing the sword was steady as the limb of an oak.