One who—who—tres. He strangled the infant, which slipped out of his hands and screamed. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. . And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. The entrance was concealed between two huge boulders within a clump of trees, and was now so overgrown that no one who did not know of its existence could ever hope to find it. And there arose too, a background of shouts. A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. ‘You do not want to be a nun,’ he said now, and Melusine noted with a prick at her senses the irritation in his tone. “I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared.
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