He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. ’ Gerald opened his eyes at her. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. He had often read about it, and once he had incorporated it in a story, that invisible force which sent men to prison and to the gallows, when a tongue controlled would have meant liberty indefinite. The title had formerly been held by Gianfrancesco’s brother, Alessia, now dead of plague. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly.
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