Get the men back to their posts. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them.
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