"Twenty-one years, my lady."
"And now you have done with it."
"It is as his honour pleases."
She frowned. He had a way of speaking that sounded uncivil to ears attuned to the soft Irish accent and the wheedling tone. Yet the man interested her, and after a moment's silence she fixed her eyes more intently on his work. "Did you lose your fingers in battle?" she asked. His right hand was maimed.
"No," he answered—grudgingly, as he seemed to answer all her questions—"in prison."
"In prison?" she repeated; "where?"
He cast an upward look at his questioner. "In the Grand Turk's land," he said. "Nearer than that, I can't say. I'm no scholar, my lady."
"But why?" she asked, puzzled. "I don't understand."
"Cut off," he said, stooping over his work.
Flavia turned a shade paler. "Why?" she repeated.