He was booted and spurred, and the backs of his top-boots were splashed with mud.

I say the backs of his boots, for he stood with his back to me while he held open the door for the girl to pass, and at first I could not see his face.
The lady advanced into the light of the candles and threw back her hood.
Her eyes were dark and frightened: her cheeks damp with rain and slightly reddened by the wind.

A curl of brown hair had broken loose from its knot and hung, heavy with wet, across her brow.

It was a beautiful face; and I recognised its owner.

She was Cicely Williams.
With that, I knew well enough what I was to see next.