"I doubt they are both dead enough." The person addressed assented, and the thick-set man wrapped in a dark cloak, who was striding along by Beatrice's stretcher, groaned again.
Clearly, he understood the Welsh tongue.

A few seconds more and they were passing through the stunted firs up to the Vicarage door.

In the doorway stood a group of people.

The light from a lamp in the hall struck upon them, throwing them into strong relief.

Foremost, holding a lantern in his hand, was a man of about sixty, with snow-white hair which fell in confusion over his rugged forehead.