"Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. In short, every contrivance that ingenuity could devise was resorted to by this horde of reprobates to secure themselves from danger or molestation.
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