The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. He did not quarrel with Rowland's profusion, for his own revenues were ample; but he did object to the large sums lavished by him in the service of a faction he was resolved not to support. Outside the door stood one of the soldiers. ‘Speak, then. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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