All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off.
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