P. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him. “The fact is—I don’t know why—this takes me by surprise. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow. One called Waterman's Hall, a horrible place adjoining the postern under the gate, whence, through a small barred aperture, they solicited alms from the passengers: the other, a large chamber, denominated My Lady's Hold, was situated in the highest part of the jail, at the northern extremity.
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