“Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. Presently she saw Spurlock on the way to the lagoon. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. She wrapped a leg around him. ‘Then mayhap this will persuade you!’ With a scrape of steel, he drew his sword from its scabbard.
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