At the close of this he told her that he had looked into her heart and believed her honest, but that she must carefully study the Prophet’s First Book. He gave her a letter for the cargo-overseer of a vessel even then at the wharf; the book, he said, would be furnished to her aboard by the third mate of the vessel. Dame Domijaiek had been her guarantee; love would be her protector. She was kissed on the forehead and they all went out into a spring twilight with drizzles of rain. At the wharf someone was trying to lead a protesting horse into the ship, among stampings and confused shouts. Lalette huddled in the shadow, as close as she could get to the widow Domijaiek and regarded the masts running up into the grey, with their climbing triangles of rope tracery. A wide plank led through a gap in the bulwarks before them, but now the horse was disposed of, the ship’s people were engaged in some bargle at one end of the vessel; no one paid any attention to the two women who tripped to the deck and stood uncertain. At last a man detached himself from the group with a cheerful farewell and came along the deck toward them, cap on head and munching a piece of bread. He would have passed with a brief stare in the assembling gloom, but the widow halted him with outstretched hand and asked where was the overseer of cargo? He halted with mouth open and cheek puffed out with food. “By the lazarette,” and before either could put another question, disappeared round a wooden structure that rose from the planking. A few spurts of rain fell. Lalette shivered more snugly into her cloak (wondering whether “witch” might not be written on her forehead to make all shun her save those whom others shunned, as Amorosians and Zigraners). Now the chatter broke up and three or four men together came toward the head of the plank, porters mainly with their iron hooks in their belts. The exception had broad but stooped shoulders, a close grey mat of beard and an unlighted lantern in his hand. To him Dame Domijaiek addressed herself, inquiring where the lazarette might be. He waved a hand. “Aft of the tri-mast, leftward”; then glanced at Lalette, stepped close and peered at her so directly that she shrank away. “For Ser Brog, mother?” he said, and turned to the older woman. “Looky here, mother, I ha’n’t seen you before along Netznegon dock, eh? You come to see me when you finish with Ser Brog, and maybe we do business, eh? At Casaldo’s.” The porters laughed and one of them bubbled a derisive sound through his lips (Lalette was already repenting her undertaking).