"Why, yes—more, perhaps, than I realised—now that you are actually here to take it away."
"But I'm not going to put it into a magic pocket and flee to New York with it!"
She spoke gaily, and his face, which had become a little grave, relaxed into its habitual expression of careless good humour.
They had slowly traversed the long lane, and now, turning, came back through groups of men-at-arms, pikemen, billmen, arquebussiers, crossbowmen, archers, halbardiers, slingers—all the multitudinous arms of a polyglot service, each apparently equipped with his proper weapon and properly accoutred for trouble.
Once or twice she glanced at the trophies aloft on the walls, every group bunched behind its shield and radiating from it under the drooping remnants of banners emblazoned with arms, crests, insignia, devices, and quarterings long since forgotten, except by such people as herself.
"Now and then she ... halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted visor"
She moved gracefully, leisurely, pausing now and then before some panoplied manikin, Desboro sauntering beside her. Now and then she stopped to inspect an ancient piece of ordnance, wonderfully wrought and chased, now and then halted on tip-toe to lift some slitted visor and peer into the dusky cavern of the helmet, where a painted face stared back at her out of painted eyes.
"Who scours all this mail?" she asked.