He waited. So, by way of gaining time, he resolved to question him further. Tight. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. Melusine ran up the stairway after him, her point flailing to frighten him into allowing her access to the chapel. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable.
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