’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of his tie and hair were almost rakish. ’ Melusine had crossed to the window that overlooked the front of the house, and was trying to peep through a crack in the shutters. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. It is with the building raised after this direful calamity that our history has to deal.
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