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When he was gone, Gabrielle exclaimed, "Now that is what I call an opportunity wasted." "We must beware, my child, who we trust," said my mother. "Of course; but he was so evidently a harmless, good sort of man." "We had no occasion to trouble him." Gabrielle plainly thought there was a good deal of occasion.
"Oh, good knight," said he, "that gentlewoman was the master fiend of hell, the champion that thou foughtest withal, the which would have overcome thee, had it not been for the grace of God. Now, beware, Sir Percivale, and take this for an ensample." Then the good man vanished away, and Sir Percivale took his arms, and entered into the ship and so departed from thence.
Madame Murrah darted forward to follow her daughter, but my uncle had seized her by the wrist, and forcing her down again, said to her in Turkish: "We have not finished; and if you stir, beware!" "Sir," exclaimed the Circassian, addressing the officer of the law, "you see how violently they are treating me, and how they are threatening me!"
"Be at peace, good Theos!" she said in a low, tender tone, . . "Beware of taking up arms in the defence of the unworthy, . . rather reserve thy courage for those who know how best to reward thy service!"
"D'Artagnan, beware of what you are doing!" "For friendship's sake, go!" and he pushed him gently towards the cabinet. "Well, I will go," said Lyonne. D'Artagnan waited, walking about the corridor in no enviable mood. Lyonne returned. "Well, what did the king say?" exclaimed D'Artagnan. "He simply answered, ''Tis well," replied Lyonne. "That it was well!" said the captain, with an explosion.
Beware lest you fall into the company of boisterous talking and strong drinking men, such as aspire to the control of the nation at this day; and, though they may not have been many months in the country, kindly condescend to teach us how to live.
"Oh! pray beware, your honour," earnestly whispered the poor dame, as she entered the cottage with the visitor. Vivian walked up with a silent step to the end of "the room, where Conyers was sitting. He remembered this little room, when he thought it the very model of the abode of an English husbandman.
For the moment, the man who was above death, who risked it for a fancy, a trifle, a momentary gratification, was a demigod. "Throw!" repeated Crillon, heedless and apparently unconscious of the stir round him: "Throw! but beware of that candle! Your sleeve is in it." It was; it was singeing.
"No, most beautiful, most glorious Marianne; your heart shall be the cage in which I shall imprison myself." "Beware, my friend. What would you say if there was no door in this cage through which you might escape?" "Oh, if it had a door, I should curse it." "Then you love me so boundlessly as to be ready to sacrifice to me the liberty you have scarcely regained?"
Not that he regretted excess on such a glorious day, but he made a mental memorandum to beware; he must not, a second time, become the victim of a deleterious habit. He had his wine out of the cellar in a twinkling; he arranged the sacrificial vessels, some on the white table-cloth, some on the sideboard, still crusted with historic earth.
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