Evans been near enough to see Finn Toller's face in that firelight he would have been reminded of a famous folklore professor, whose lectures at one time he used to attend. When some pupil would propound to him a question that was more audacious than behooved the subject, this good man would frown in blank, bewildered confusion and would open his mouth to its utmost stretch. Thus did Finn Toller look when Mad Bet asked him whether her “young man” would “feel” anything when that iron bar crushed his skull. “If he did feel it / should feel it, Finn Toller,” repeated that crouching figure, pulling her shawl so far down over her face that the syllables she emitted issued forth in a muffled tone. Mr. Toller continued to survey this enveloped head. It was hard for him to tell whether the woman's eyes were scrutinising him closely from beneath it or whether they were blinded by the folds of the shawl. But he watched her intently; as a tame wolf might watch its robber master ere they rose to attack a caravanserai of travellers.
