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She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. Capital swordsman. What!—add another drop to her cup? Who knows? Any day they may find me. Was she so bad a prospect? ‘No good, Melusine,’ said a new voice from the doorway. “Everybody seems to have it now. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked.
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