They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. "Why? Because I love her! Because I loved her at the start, but was too big a fool to know it!" His own astonishment was quite equal to McClintock's. "Mac, did you ever run across a missioner by the name of Enschede?" "Enschede?" McClintock stared at the ceiling. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. "But, take my advice, and keep out of Sir Rowland's way, or you'll get the poor lady into trouble as well as me. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. “My brother’s room when he comes home. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. .
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