She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Such was the effect produced upon the passengers by his good looks and manly deportment, that few—especially of the gentler and more susceptible sex—failed to turn round and bestow a second glance upon the handsome stranger. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. He classified her as he seated himself. She felt sickeningly empty.
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