A few claymores and battle-axes were ranged
against the wall, and a culverin, captured by Sir Ralph Heavystone,
occupied the corner, the other end of the room being taken up by a
light battery. Foils, boxing-gloves, saddles, and fishing-poles
lay around carelessly. A small pile of billets-doux lay upon a
silver salver. The man was not an anchorite, nor yet a Sir
Galahad.
I never could tell what Guy thought of women. "Poor little
beasts," he would often say when the conversation turned on any of
his fresh conquests. Then, passing his hand over his marble brow,
the old look of stern fixedness of purpose and unflinching severity
would straighten the lines of his mouth, and he would mutter, half
to himself, "S'death!"
"Come with me to Heavystone Grange. The Exmoor Hounds throw off
to-morrow. I'll give you a mount," he said, as he amused himself
by rolling up a silver candlestick between his fingers. "You shall
have Cleopatra. But stay," he added, thoughtfully; "now I
remember, I ordered Cleopatra to be shot this morning."
"And why?" I queried.
"She threw her rider yesterday and fell on him--"
"And killed him?"
"No. That's the reason why I have ordered her to be shot.
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