Men who saw him riding wildly thus with the red wheal across his white furious face said that he looked a very devil.
He crossed the bridge at Penryn a half-hour after sunset, as dusk was closing into night, and it may be that the sharp, frosty air had a hand in the cooling of his blood.

For as he reached the river's eastern bank he slackened his breakneck pace, even as he slackened the angry galloping of his thoughts.

The memory of that oath he had sworn three months ago to Rosamund smote him like a physical blow.

It checked his purpose, and, reflecting this, his pace fell to an amble.

He shivered to think how near he had gone to wrecking all the happiness that lay ahead of him.