He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. *** Gerald vaguely noted that his junior leapt to his feet at sight of his former commander, and that Lucilla sat with her mouth at half-cock, dread in her face. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her.
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