"It's the skull of a rebel," said Jonathan, with marked emphasis on the word, "blown by the wind from a spike on the bridge above us. Forgive me. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Sheppard, I'm sure, will say as much for you.
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