“It is Rhea’s infant. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. So was I, in fact. Followed by Van Galgebrok and others of his retinue, he then rushed into the room, where Rowland, Sir Cecil, and their attendants, stood with drawn swords prepared to receive them. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. The veins in his throat and forehead swelled and blackened; his eyes protruded from their sockets, and stared wildly; a thick damp gathered on his brow: and blood gushed from his mouth, nostrils, and ears. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She was surprised at his modesty.
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