She glanced into her companion’s face, and she saw there strange things. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. The expression was wholly different. ‘I thank you. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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