Her soul was filled with an instinctive, unformulated dread.
As to Dunwody himself, ruthless and arrogant as was his nature, he bore no trace of imperiousness now.

The silent lips and high color of the face before him he did not interpret to mean terror, but contempt.

In the fortunes of chance he had won her.

In the game of war she was his prisoner.

Yet no ancient warrior of old, rude, armored, beweaponed, unrelenting, ever stood more abashed before some high-headed woman captive.