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and he would have listened patiently, but without one responsive
emotion. Bodily prowess and daring he could appreciate. Keene's physical
_prestige_ was just the thing to captivate his limited imagination;
besides which the ground was prepared for the seedtime. He had some
soldier friends, and dining with these at the Swashing Buckler, he had
heard some of those club chronicles in which the Cool Captain's name
figured prominently.
The latter interpreted perfectly well the gaze that was riveted upon
him, without being in the least flattered by it. He felt, perhaps, the
same sort of satisfaction that one experiences when, fighting for the
odd trick, the first card in our hand is a heavy trump. Dick's thorough
and undivided allegiance once secured, was a good card in the game he
was playing at the moment. Whatever his thoughts might have been, his
face told no tales. He had been flooring glass for glass with his guest
till the liquor began to work its way into the cracks even of such a
seasoned vessel; but, for any outward or visible sign in feature,
speech, or manner, he might have been assisting at a teetotaller's
_soiree_.
Very oftenlate on guestnights, or other tournaments of deep drinking,
where Trojan and Tyrian met to do battle for the credit of their
respective corpsthe calm, rigid face, never flushing beyond a clear
swarthy brown, and the cold, bright, inevitable eyes, had stricken
terror into the hearts of bacchanalian Heavies, and given consolation,
if not confidence, to the Hussars, who were failing fast: these knew
that though their own brains might be reeling and their legs
rebelliously independent, their single champion was invincible. As the
last of the Enomotae went down, he saw Othryades standing steadfastly,
with never a trace of wound or weakness, still able and willing to write
[Greek: NIKH] on his shield.
When our poor Dick was once thoroughly impressed, for the first time,
with awe or admiration, either for man or woman, he generally fell into
a species of trance, from which it was exceedingly difficult to bring
him round. He would have sat there, staring stupidly, till morning, with
perfect satisfaction to himself, if Molyneux had not attacked him with a
direct question, How long do you think of staying at Dorade? And have
you made any plans afterward?
_Le mouton qui revait_ roused himself with an effort, and searched the
bottom of his empty glass narrowly for a reply. Eventually he succeeded
in finding one:
Cecil talks about two months; then we are to go on by Nice, Genoa,
Florence, Rome, and Naples, and so come back byItaly. He had got up
the first names by rote, and run them off glibly enough, but was
evidently at fault about the last one. I fancy he had some vague idea of
Austrian troops being quartered in these regions, and looked upon

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