she listened, whom she had seen deliberately attempt to overthrow his
adversary in a foul heedless of dishonour or of who might be killed by
the shock? Could this be the man whose face just now had looked like
the face of a devil? Had these things happened, indeed, or was it not
possible that her fancy, confused with the excitement and the speed at
which they were travelling, had deceived her? Certainly it seemed to
have been overcome at last, for she could not remember the actual finish
of the race, or how they got clear of the shouting crowd.

While she was still wondering thus, replying from time to time to
Montalvo in monosyllables, the sledge in front of them turned the corner
of one of the eastern bastions and came to a halt. The place where it
stopped was desolate and lonely, for the town being in a state of peace
no guard was mounted on the wall, nor could any living soul be found
upon the snowy waste that lay beyond the moat. At first, indeed, Lysbeth
was able to see nobody at all, for by now the sun had gone down and her
eyes were not accustomed to the increasing light of the moon. Presently,
however, she caught sight of a knot of people standing on the ice in a
recess or little bay of the moat, and half hidden by a fringe of dead
reeds.

Montalvo saw also, and halted his horse within three paces of them.
The people were five in number, three Spanish soldiers and two women.
Lysbeth looked, and with difficulty stifled a cry of surprise and fear,
for she knew the women. The tall, dark person, with lowering eyes, was
none other than the cap-seller and Spanish spy, Black Meg. And she who
crouched there upon the ice, her arms bound behind her, her grizzled
locks, torn loose by some rough hand, trailing on the snow--surely it
was the woman who called herself the Mare, and who that very afternoon
spoke to her, saying that she had known her father, and cursing the