She would not let her move. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding from cow's horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and cat-gut, with other sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and, enlivened by this harmonious accompaniment, the troop reached its destination in the best possible spirits for an encounter. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall.
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