Spurling, for so was she named, had a warm nut-brown complexion, almost as dark as a Creole; and a moustache on her upper lip, that would have done no discredit to the oldest dragoon in the King's service. “What are you two whispering about?” She turned towards Martin. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. Then Melusine is in truth your granddaughter. " With this, he attacked her vigorously in his turn. Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason.
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