Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. "Why, you don't think as how they're crimps, do you?" Ben inquired. She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered. Do help me, Lady Ferringhall. You have all the earmarks of a fugitive from justice. I'll keep it for your sake.
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