He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. . "Troth, and so did you," returned the watchman; "but I couldn't belave it. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. She’s taken my sword. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell.
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