Outside the cavern, not ten yards from them, a raucous din began, stilled presently by Nita’s voice.
“What is this?”
“It’s what Hardcastle has left of Jake,” came a quavering answer.
“You fools. I got him caged for you. I left ten to take one as he came out with the pedlar’s brat, thinking they had a clear run to safety. And it’s all miscarried at the start.”
“You bade us take Hardcastle alive,” growled another of the nine. “But for that, we could have stoned him to death as if he’d been a conie.”
“An easy death, and I’d planned otherwise.”
Again Causleen’s hand crept into Hardcastle’s. The bleak venom in Nita’s voice, the lousy uproar of the mob so near them, put fierce gladness in her that Hardcastle had gone wild-beast, too.
The low, purring voice sounded again, daunting the uproar till it ceased.
“There was to be sport for Garsykes. If ten had taken one—alive, to watch the frolic—we’d have seen how he took it when I threw Causleen to our wolves.”
Hardcastle, in the darkness of the cave, gripped Causleen to him; and it was a marvel to her that his fierceness broke no bones this time. The wet roof dripped on them. Their only hope lay in retreat along dank, ghost-haunted passages. Yet, deep under all, they tasted swift content.