“The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. His lawful wife; but nothing more; beyond that she was only an idea, a trust. I’m a desperate young woman. When he awoke it was late in the day, and he was surprised to find Blueskin seated by his bedside, watching over him with a drawn sword on his knee, a pistol in each hand, and a blood-stained cloth bound across his brow.
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