Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. Once he had managed to stake his claim, she would have all to do to prove her identity and win it back. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him.
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