Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. Dear me! if there isn't his knock. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands.
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