Marjorie Bowen

“ She sat up, shaking her furs to the floor. "I care only for my husband."
The coach rattled and shook and the lamp-wick leaped and flickered.
"Only for my husband—and if his share in this is discovered it means ruin—if not death—to him."
The very words seemed to come with an effort from her tongue; she blenched at the bare thought of the possibility she spoke of.
"I shall not mention your husband's name," said Jerome Caryl.
"If ye put them on the track they will discover for themselves." ”

“ She stands there staring across the heath, upright in the coach door.
All her senses are quickened; she fancies that she can see even through the darkness, one man struggling with two, defending himself with a clasp-knife—she sees them slip a lace scarf over his head, tighten it round his throat—she sees blood—scarlet as flame, before her eyes and shakes her hands as if she felt it running from them ”

“ She dragged at her hair with a curious aimless gesture and crouched far into the corner, hiding her face in the cushions. From the darkness no sound save the gentle one of the rain and the jingle of harness as one of the horses moved.
Then suddenly footsteps, and in the open door one of her Highlanders with blood on his face.
"Ah—so soon! So soon!"
"He has a knife in his pocket—he is fighting for his life like a devil." The man put his hand to his bleeding forehead. ”