She had stayed the horse. She stood in the midst of the drove, upright, her foot planted before her, her head raised, one arm lifted to the horse's head, the other extended before her with hand outspread. She had nothing on her head save her chestnut hair flying in the cold north wind. Her side-turned face was colourless and sallow.
'Come, Ki Drownlands. When I make an offer, I mean it. When I make a threat, I mean that too. Will you take my offer? It is not Cheap Jack Zita who will go back from her word.'
'Be it so, then.'
'It is a deal?'
'Yes—a bargain.'
'Here is my hand,' said Zita, dropping the bridle. 'A deal is a deal.'
CHAPTER XXX
IN COURT