Behind her the windows had been thrust open so violently that one of the panes was shivered.

Blake stood under the lintel, scarce recognizable, so smeared was his face with the blood escaping from the wound his cheek had taken.
His clothes were muddied, soiled, torn, and disordered.
Framed there against the black background of the night, he stood and surveyed them for a moment, his aspect terrific.

Then he leapt forward, baring his sword as he came.

An incoherent roar burst from his lips as he bore straight down upon Richard.
"You damned, infernal traitor!" he cried.

"Draw, draw! Or die like the muckworm that you are." Intrepid, her terror all vanished now that there was the need for courage, Ruth confronted him, barring his passage, a buckler to her palsied brother.
"Out of my way, mistress, or I'll be doing you a mischief." "You are mad, Sir Rowland," she told him in a voice that did something towards restoring him to his senses.
His fierce eyes considered her a moment, and he controlled himself to offer an explanation.