The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. While he was thus standing, the flames of his house, which made the whole street as light as day, and ruddily illumined the faces of the mob below, betrayed him to them, and he was speedily driven from his position by a shower of stones and other missiles. ‘I have said it is not stolen,’ snapped Melusine indignantly. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape.
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