The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. The smile had become a laugh. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. “I would marry your sister anyhow, under any circumstances,” he answered. "'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. ’ ‘I imagine it must be a relief to you, after so lucky an escape. She took a deep breath. Adjoining it was the Lower Ward,—"Though, in what degree of latitude it was situated," observes Ned Ward, "I cannot positively demonstrate, unless it lay ninety degrees beyond the North Pole; for, instead of being dark there but half a year, it is dark all the year round.
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