Jonathan cast a hasty glance around, to see that all was properly arranged for his purpose; placed a chair with its back to the door; disposed the lights on the table so as to throw the entrance of the room more into shadow; and then flung himself into a seat to await Sir Rowland's arrival. Her depression since the “accident” had possessed her, she no longer cared how she looked as her beauty helped her not. The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Oh, you must believe me. She was betrothed to Gianfrancesco Iovelli at the age of nine. . . I sha'n't cry any more. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. .
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