They had not to tarry long. There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. I’ve seen him, and he doesn’t a bit understand. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast.
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