It lay on the floor in her bedroom, broken in three places.
Her early days in Ireland had given her a belief in the omens of good and evil, for in the "emerald gem of the Western world" superstition runs riot.
The faith in it was in her blood, though it needed no broken mirror to tell her what dread thing awaited her, towards which she must advance, urged by fate.
She had only written one letter, and that one was to Emile. Now that he was gone there was no one else who cared.
Something told her now that his last words had only been an attempt to comfort her, to ease her mind, and that she would wait in vain for his return.
Estelle would weep for a little while, and drink a great deal to drown her tears, and then forget. They were nearly at the hut now. She could see it, a grotesque shadow thrown across the silvered earth.
She slipped off and walked, leading her mule by the bridle.
Behind her were subdued curses, the rattle of slipping hoofs and falling stones, as the animals climbed the last and steepest piece of road, which ended in the plateau on which the building stood.
In front of it was a single large tree, but most of the ground close by bore nothing higher than dwarf shrubs and long grass.
When the cavalcade drew up and dismounted, Vardri was discovered to be missing.