"No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. It had been her home for hundreds of years. Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword.
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