He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. I have to see if you carry any more weapons. I can smell you. I have yet another. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered.
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