"A word?" the Sicilian said, raising his arms. His mile was more angelic than his face Buttercup halted. "Speak." "We are but poor circus performers," the Sicilian explained, "It is dark and we are lost. We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills." "You were misinformed," Buttercup told him, "There is no one, not for many miles." "Then there will be no one to hear you scream." --