“Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said. Her back arched slightly in response. He not only did this, but supplied him with an ointment which allayed the swelling of his limbs, and crowned all by furnishing him with a jug of excellent ale. Gracious, there’s the gong. What with these converging roofs that shut out all but a hand's breadth of the sky, sunshine was rare at this point. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. Noiselessly, his booted feet stepping with careful restraint, he started forward, signalling to Roding to follow.
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