A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly. The passage was so narrow that there was only sufficient room for the cart to pass, with a single line of foot-soldiers on one side; and, as the walls of the bridge were covered with spectators, it was not deemed prudent to cross it till these persons were dislodged. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache.
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