The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. "She is in his power, and I am here, chained hand and foot, unable to assist her. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile.
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