"We'll give them the slip yet, and hang that butcherly thief-taker upon his own gibbet. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Then he threw the letter at me. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. Who could guarantee a safer existence outside Florence? That Sebastian seemed to have a weird immunity to the Pestilence was a trait that went unquestioned, unanswered. "Tom Sheppard never said a better thing than that— ho! ho!" "Jack," cried his mother, wringing her hands in distraction, "you'll break my heart!" "Poh! poh!" returned her son; "women don't so easily break their hearts. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable.
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