Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. His grief was so audible, that it attracted the notice of some of the bystanders, and Thames was obliged to beg him to control it. "Stay, dear Thames!—stay!" cried the little girl. How did you meet him?’ ‘He was wounded and came to the convent for sanctuary,’ Melusine told him, stung by his criticism into revealing more than she had intended. “Stop! Don’t put your face there.
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