Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. Gerald doubted there would be many eager suitors, even assuming the comtesse was keen to marry off her daughter to a foreign protestant. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. 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. There! You are trying to take your hand away.
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