Now that he spoke, his companions saw, exposed in the field to the view of the nunnery, a white body lying on a framework as on a bier.

Near the foot stood a rough sort of windlass.
Above, on the crest of the field, where a band of men had begun to scramble at the sentinel's halloo, there sat on a white pony the bright-robed figure of the tall fanatic, Fang the Sword-Pen.
"He did it!" Heywood's hands opened and shut rapidly, like things out of control.

"Oh, Wutz, how did they--Saint Somebody--the martyrdom-- Poussin's picture in the Vatican .-- I can't stand this, you chaps!" He snatched blindly at his gun, caught instead one of the compradore's halberds, and without pause or warning, jumped out into the shallow water.

He ran splashing toward the bank, turned, and seemed to waver, staring with wild eyes at the strange Tudor weapon in his hand.

Then shaking it savagely,-- "This will do!" he cried.