These were the Master's body-guard. 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. The four tourists contributed varied sums: the spinsters ten cents each, the girl a shilling, the young man a Mexican dollar. Instead, God had sent her Sebastianus, a man who had sold his soul to the Devil to gain eternal life, or perhaps he was even the Devil himself. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh.
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