’ ‘I see now how it was that Marthe knew of the secret passage,’ Melusine said. He asked her whether she understood what she was saying, and went on to say still more precisely that she should never touch a penny of his money until she came home again—not one penny. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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