It was at this point, when fifty knives flashed in the air, with vengeful
exclamations, that Jethro Fawe appeared in the midst of the crowd. He
was dressed in the well-known clothes which he had worn since the day he
first declared himself at Gabriel Druse's home, and, compared with his
friends around him, he showed to advantage. There was command in his
bearing, and experience of life had given him primitive distinction.

For a moment he stood looking at Fleda in undisguised admiration, for
she made a remarkable picture. Animal beauty was hers, too. There was a
delicate, athletic charm in her body and bearing; but it added to, rather
than took away from, the authority of her presence, so differing from
Jethro. She had never compared herself with others, and her passionate
intelligence would have rebelled against the supremacy of the body. She
had no physical vanity, but she had some mental vanity, and it placed
mind so far above matter that her beauty played no part in her
calculations. At sight of him, Fleda's blood quickened, but in
indignation and in no other sense. As he came towards her, however,
despising his vanity as she did, she felt how much he was above all those
by whom he was surrounded. She realized his talent, and it almost made
her forget his cunning and his loathsomeness. As he came near to her he
made a slight gesture to someone in the crowd, and a chorus of
salutations rose.

Composed and still she waited for him to come quite close to her, and the
look in her face was like that of one who was scarcely conscious of what
was passing around her, whose eyes saw distant things of infinite moment.

A few feet away from her he spoke.

"Daughter of the Ry of Rys, you are among your own people once again,"