She and a negro were standing beside two horses from which they had just dismounted. A little circle of loiterers and busybodies had gathered round them and were eyeing them curiously and questioning them. The horses, jaded and over-ridden, hung their heads, and blew out their nostrils. The black, scared by his surroundings, glanced fearfully hither and thither—it was clear that he felt himself to be in the enemy’s camp. But Constantia showed no sign of fear, or of anything but fatigue. Her eyes travelled gravely round the circle, questioned, challenged, met admiration with pride. And yet—and yet, along with the grief and despair that reigned in her breast—that must have reigned there!—there must have lurked, also, some seed of woman’s weakness; for as her eyes, in leaping a gap in the circle, met mine and held them—and held them, so that for a moment I ceased to breathe—I felt her whole soul travel to me in appeal. One thing was clear to me at once: that as yet she did not know the part I had played. For had she known it, her eyes instead of meeting mine would have shunned me, as if I had been the plague. And that gave me courage. Heedless for the moment of what might ensue, or of what she must eventually learn, I pushed my way through the men, I uncovered, I reached her side. Then, on a nearer view, I saw the change that sorrow and fatigue had wrought in her. She was white as paper, and against the white her hair hung in black clinging masses on her cheeks. Her eyes shone out of dark circles, and her homespun habit was splashed with the mud of many leagues. With all this, I was able to address her, encouraged by her look, as simply as if I had parted from her an hour before—as if I had expected her and knew her plans. “My quarters are near here,” I said. “I will take you to them,” I added. That was all. “Tell him,” she answered, with a glance at her attendant. She spoke as if, with all her courage, she had hardly strength to utter the words. I did so, and the idlers about us, noting my rank, fell back. The crowd broke up. Tom—it was he—led the horses on. We followed, both silent. Forty yards brought us to the door of Paton’s house. When we were inside, “Will you give me some wine?” she said. I looked for the wine and as I did so, I was aware of Paton escaping from the room with a face of dismay. He recognized her, of course, but I had other things to do than to think of him. I found some Madeira and filled a large glass and gave it to her. She took a piece of bread from her pocket and ate a mouthful or two with the wine, sitting the while on a box with her eyes fixed on vacancy.