The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. “No reason. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. Having no means of defence, Sir Rowland cleared the blood from his vision; and, turning to see whether there was any means of escape, he descried the open door behind him leading to the Well Hole, and instantly darted through it.
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