To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. She stood on the mat instead, and looked down on him. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. With a loud shout, and headed by a powerfully-built man, with a face as black as that of a mulatto, and armed with a cutlass, the rabble leapt over the barricades, and rushed towards the vehicle.
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