A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. But, as soon as he perceived who it was, he roused himself, and glared fiercely at the intruder from under his bent brows. Towards this box Sharples directed his steps, and, unlocking a hatch in the door, disclosed a recess scarcely as large, and certainly not as clean, as a dog-kennel. He had this thing for his twin daughters. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. The father was a madman.
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