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Updated: May 23, 2025
I bid you to leave me!" She pointed imperiously with her white finger to the black, oblong doorway, from which Malise's rude hand had dragged the covering flap to the ground. But the churchman and his guide stood their ground. Suddenly the Abbot reached a hand and took the sword on which the master armourer leaned.
It chanced that for several minutes no sound was heard except those connected with their labour, the low whistle with which the Lord James accompanied his polishing, the wisp-wisp of Malise's arms as he sewed the double thread back and forth through a rent in his leathern jack, and the rasp of Sholto's file as he carved out the finials of the bow, the notched grooves wherein the string was to lie so easily and yet so firmly.
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