He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. Melusine did not pause, but reached down to grasp the hilt of his sword and lift it. Scarcely any one entered Mr. Anna never knew whither it had led her— sometimes she had fears.
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