So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. His appetite was perfectly Gargantuan. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. ‘What are you after this time, miss?’ asked Jack.
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