"Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. But let the horses be in readiness.
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