There was in it a savage poignancy in serenity unexampled among women--or modern women.

One might imagine an apotheosis of a militant young princess of Goths or Vandals, the glow of blessedness awakening her martial ardours through the languor of the grave:--Woodseer would comprehend and hit on the exact image to portray her in a moment, Fleetwood thought, and longed for that fellow.
He walked hurriedly back to the stunted rock tree.

The damsel had vanished.

He glanced below.

She had not fallen.