It was not only Leonardo who had instilled in her this distrust of men. He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck. ‘Jacques? You have done it? He is alive?’ ‘Oh, he’s alive, all right,’ confirmed the sergeant, putting the petrified Pottiswick—stockstill and staring in horror at the dagger—firmly out of his way and taking his place before Melusine. That would be him. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. But this I cannot do. “Besides, it is not so. "Do you hear that! We are not wholly at fault.
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