Dalhousie's tall friend advanced with a limp, in silence. He halted at a
courteous distance; it was seen that one hand held a soft hat, crushed
against his side. A faint wave of the ethereal light immersed the man
now, and Carlisle dimly descried his face. She observed at once that it
did not seem to be a menacing face at all; no, rather was it kindly
disposed and even somewhat trustful in its look. It was the second thing
that she noticed about him.

Perhaps no girl in the world was less like the popular portrait of a fat
horse-leech's daughter than this girl, Carlisle Heth. Surely no advance
ever less resembled the charge of a hating prophet upon a Hun than this
man's advance. Carlisle, to be sure, was never one to think in
historical or Biblical terminology. But she did note the man's manner of
approach upon her, and his general appearance, with an instant lifting
of the heart. The whole matter seemed desperately serious to her, full
of alarming possibilities, a matter for a determined fight. And she felt
more confidence at once, the moment she had seen how the emissary
looked, how he looked at her.

Chiefly for strategic reasons, she had sat down on the bench again, well
back in the shadows. She did not speak; had no intention of speaking
till speech might gain something. And the stranger, silent also, wore an
air of hesitancy or confusion which was puzzling to her and yet quite
reassuring, too. If he had come to say that Dalhousie would talk unless
she did, would he be this sort of looking person at all?...

The man began abruptly; clearly nothing plotted out in advance.

"He's quite crushed.... I--I've just come from him...."