"Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. "But, if I should not return, take this purse to Edgeworth Bess. He is the one who has said that she must go to the convent.
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