All eyes are not blind yonder, nor all ears deaf.

That head of yours shall yet be lifted higher than you think--so high that it sticks upon the top of Blossholme Towers, a warning to all who would sell England to her enemies.

John Foterell lies dead with your knave's arrow in his throat, but Jeffrey Stokes is away with the writings.

And now do your worst, Clement Maldon.

If you want my wife, come take her." The Abbot listened, listened intently, drinking in every ominous word.
His swarthy face went white with fear, then turned black with rage.