His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. Now the pig knew where to find her—for it would not take long for a Catholic to locate the convent in Golden Square—even if she escaped him here. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind.
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