About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. And then her pace slackened. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. There was no response. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. But stand by and hear such things said about my late mistress’s daughter, I won’t.
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