There was no time to lose, she told herself
feverishly, and moved forward with snake-like stillness. Between the
sheltering arm and the neck of the steel shirt there was a space of naked
throat. Setting her teeth, she raised her knife and struck down at it with a
strong hand.
The point never reached its mark. For an instant she could not tell what had
happened. Fingers closed like iron bands around her wrist, pulling her
backwards so that the pain of her twisted wound wrung a cry from her lips.
They were not Norman's fingers, yet he also was stirring; while darting
flashes from the dusk about them told that the other sleepers were drawing
their weapons. Then some one threw a branch-ful of dead leaves upon the fire.
The flame that flared up showed her arm to be in the grasp of the Lord of
Ivarsdale.
"You mad young one!" he gasped, as he wrenched the blade from her hold.
Voices rose in angry questioning, but Randalin was too fear-benumbed to
understand what they said. Norman's keen eyes were turned upon her, and
recognition was dawning in their gaze.
Suddenly, he snatched her from Sebert's grasp and held her down to the
firelight. Could she have seen the mask which dust and blood had made for her,
she would have been spared the terror-swoon that left her limp in his grasp.
But it only bewildered her when, after an instant's scrutiny, he let her fall
with an angry laugh.
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