The narrow black moustache he wore
emphasised rather than concealed the thin straight line of mouth.
Plainly a fighting man this, and one, moreover, accustomed to hold his
own.
At the striking of a clock in the room behind him he turned as though a
voice had spoken, and left the stone balcony on which he had been
waiting. His spurs rang as he stepped into the room behind it. The floor
was uncarpeted, and shone like ebony.
He glanced around him as one unfamiliar with his surroundings. It was a
large apartment, and lofty, but it contained very little furniture--a
couch, two or three chairs, a writing-table; on the walls, several
strangely shaped weapons; on the mantelpiece a couple of foils.
He smiled as his look fell upon these, and, crossing the room, he took
one of them up, and tested it between his hands.
At the quiet opening of the door he wheeled, still holding it. A woman
stood a moment upon the threshold; then slowly entered. She was little
more than a girl but the cold dignity of her demeanour imparted to her
the severity of more advanced years. Her face was like marble, white,
pure, immobile; but there was a touch of pathos about the eyes. They
were deeply shadowed, and looked as if they had watched--or wept--for
many hours.
Dumaresq bowed in the brief English fashion, instantly straightening
himself with a squaring of his broad shoulders that were already so
immensely square that they made his height seem inconsiderable.
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