Melusine flew after him, the sword held out before her and pointing directly at his retreating back. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. It was hard to meet that gaze. Acting upon this humane determination, he impelled himself slowly backwards,—for he did not dare to face the blast,—and with incredible labour and fatigue reached the crevice. She had not at first the power for concealment.
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