'...
"'... _magnus valde_,'" read Isabel; and looked up again;--and then
closed the book. There was no need to read more.
* * * *
She walked across the court half an hour later, just as the sun came up;
and passed out through the Lieutenant's lodging, and out by the narrow
bridge on to the Tower wharf.
To the left and behind her, as she looked eastwards down the river, lay
the heavy masses of the prison she had left, and the high walls and
turrets were gilded with glory. The broad river itself was one rolling
glory too; the tide was coming in swift and strong and a barge or two
moved upwards, only half seen in the bewildering path of the sun. The air
was cool and keen, and a breeze from the water stirred Isabel's hair as
she stood looking, with the light on her face. It was a cloudless October
morning overhead. Even as she stood a flock of pigeons streamed across
from the south side, swift-flying and bathed in light; and her eyes
followed them a moment or two.
As she stood there silent, a step came up the wharf from the direction of
St. Katharine's street, and a man came walking quickly towards her. He
did not see who she was until he was close, and then he started and took
off his hat; it was Lackington on his way to some business at the Tower;
but she did not seem to see him. She turned almost immediately and began
to walk westwards, and the glory in her eyes was supreme. And as she went
the day deepened above her.
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