Miela swooped down at him, and he struck at her with his knife; but she avoided it with an incredibly swift turn, and a second later had passed him and was crossing the courtyard.
Round and round she flew, her great wings flapping audibly, a giant bird circling its prey. The man turned continually to face her. Several times she swooped toward him, and as swiftly avoided his blow. From every side she threatened. The man stood now bewildered, striking wild in a frenzy, as one strikes at a darting wasp. At last, with an agonized cry, he turned and ran. Instantly she dropped upon him; there was a flash of her white arm; the man's body crumpled and lay still among the flowers.
Miela was back beside me. Her breast was heaving; her eyes were full of tears; she trembled.
"A terrible thing, Alan, my husband, for a woman to do; but it had to be."
I pressed her hand with silent understanding.
"Come, Alan," she said. "They will have heard his cry. The others—we must meet them, too."
"We must get to the king. I—"
A vibrant scream rang out from the silence of the house—a man's voice, shrill with agony—then suddenly stilled.
"Good God, Miela! The king—where is he? Take me there."
She pulled me back through the doorway. A man scurried past. I leaped at him and struck him a glancing blow with the heavy wooden pestle. He stumbled to his knees. Without thought of giving quarter, I hit him again before he could rise. He sank back, senseless or dead.