human
There are none of them hurt yet, I trust, said Father Brian.
gpt
Look at them, though! The wolves of Norway! They are putting fire to the stockade, to burn a hole in it. They are swearing to slay every soul for only shutting the gate against them.
human
I am glad they were slow in their fire making, said Ned.
gpt
That was flint and steel work. It's a good thing they didn't have any parlour matches. One cartridge of dynamite, though, would blow that stockade every which way--or a can of powder.
human
Ned, the son of Webb, shouted Father Brian,
gpt
They may listen, growled Leif, the son of Beo,