She spoke little; what she said impressed Chillon's chief, Owain Wythan was glad to tell her.

The good friend had gone counter to the tide of her breast by showing satisfaction with the prospect that she would take her rightful place in the world.

Her concentrated mind regarded the good friend as a phantom of a man, the world's echo.

His dead Rebecca would have understood her passion to be her brother's comrade, her abasement in the staying at home to guard his butterfly.

Owain had never favoured her project; he could not now perceive the special dangers Chillon would be exposed to in her separation from him.