225 “Sebastianus. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed. Scarcely any one noticed the full measure of her consternation.
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