The contest was now carried on between Rowland and Darrell. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. They were looking for a guide. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. "Judging from what you tell me, I've no doubt he's the illegitimate offspring of some handsome, but lowborn profligate; in which case, he'll neither have name, nor wealth for his inheritance. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd.
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