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"On the morning of Sunday," Dermod exploded. The cleric nodded with savage emphasis. "On the morning of this self-same and instant sacred day." "Tell on," said the king wrathfully. But terror gripped with sudden fingers at Becfola's heart. "Do not tell horrid stories on the Sunday," she pleaded. "No good can come to any one from such a tale." "Nay, this must be told, sweet lady," said the king.
Such a load of apprehension was lifted from Becfola's heart that she instantly did as she had been commanded, and such a bewilderment had yet possession of her faculties that she could not think or utter a word on any subject.
As they toiled desolately up the rustling and whispering side of a low hill the maid chanced to look back, and when she looked back she screamed and pointed, and clung to Becfola's arm. Becfola followed the pointing finger, and saw below a large black mass that moved jerkily forward. "Wolves!" cried the maid. "Run to the trees yonder," her mistress ordered.
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