'Tell me, and torment me no more.'
She stepped to the corner of the room, took the flail up, and cast it on the table between them.
'The something is that flail.'
Suddenly through the window smote a red flare; it kindled the room, it turned Zita's hair into a ruddy aureole, it streamed over the table, and dyed the flail blood-red.
And Drownlands cast himself on his knees, with a cry of anguish and remorse, and buried his face in his hands.
Then through the house sounded a hubbub of voices, and cries for the master.
CHAPTER XXI
THE FEN RIOTS