To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. "I will swear it upon the cross!" "His name, then?" demanded the knight. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm.
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