Now his
lordship skipped gaily from behind me and opened the door. He stepped
softly in, and I was pushed after him by his dragoons.
"'Friends will rescue you and bring you to me,'" he quoted, jeering me.
"There's no Margaret for you, Farmer Wheatman. I shall have her yet!"
Then, beast as he was, while the men kept me back, nearly tearing my arms
out of their sockets, he stuck the point of his rapier over my heart and
babbled half-delirious beastliness.
We were in a big, bare kitchen, the other door of which was closed. There
was no sign of anyone about, and Brocton, still with his sword ready for
me, bawled out, "Where are you, you old hag?"
The door opened at once. Brocton dropped his sword in his fright and I
clapped my foot on it. The two men fled like rabbits. Familiar as the
picture is to my mind, it is hard to find words to fit this crowning
moment of my adventures.
Margaret walked into the room.
For a second she was minded to rush at me, but thought better of it, and
walked up to his lordship. She towered over his limp, cringing figure, and
said coldly, "You are too poor a cur to be struck by a woman or I would
strike you.
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