From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. I’m minded to take a whip and beat some sense into you. You are yet a child; and though you have strayed from the right path, a stronger hand than your own has led you thence. He divorced her.
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