WINNSOME'S VERDICT OF DEATH
Strang's voice came to him in a low, solemn monotone, its rumbling depth drowning the words he was speaking, and as Nathaniel saw him lift his arm from about the girl's shoulders and place his great hand upon her head he dug his own fingers fiercely into the rotting logs and an imprecation burned in his breath. He did not need to hear what the king was saying. It was a pantomime in which every gesture was understandable. But even Neil, huddled against the wall, heard the last words of the prophet as they thundered forth in sudden passion.
"Winnsome Croche demands the death of her father's murderer!"
Nathaniel felt his companion's shoulders sinking under his weight and he leaped quickly to the floor.
"Winnsome is there!" he panted desperately. "Do you want to see her?"
Neil hesitated.
"No. Your boots gouge my shoulder. Take them off."
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