’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. I had not seen the courtyard in many years and I was happy to dream of those times. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. They would arrive sometime in June. She listened with dumb fear in her eyes. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. As far as I recollect, there were two.
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