“No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy.
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