"That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. He seated himself before it. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison. “You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. ‘What is this proof?’ ‘I will not tell you.
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