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Bohun would have denied it vehemently if you told him that he had once looked down on Lawrence, or despised him for his inartistic mind. Lawrence was "a fine fellow"; he might seem a little slow at first, "but you wait and you will see what kind of a chap he is."
We stood and listened whilst the white mist gathered and grew over the cobbles. Certainly there was a strain of music, very faint and dim, threading through the air. "Well, I must go on," said Bohun. "You go up to the left, don't you? Good-night." I watched Bohun's figure cross the Square.
His impassioned devotion to Vera had led to nothing at all, his enthusiasm for Russia had led to a most unsatisfactory Revolution, and his fatherly protection of Markovitch had inspired apparently nothing more fruitful than distrust. I would like to emphasise that it was in no way from any desire to interfere in other people's affairs that young Bohun undertook these Quests.
He had also two Serovs, a fine Vrubel, and several Ryepins. He had also a fine private collection of indecent drawings. "I really don't know what on earth we're going to this man for," I said discontentedly. "I was weak this afternoon." "No, you weren't," said Bohun. "And I'll tell you frankly that I'm jolly glad not to be having a meal at home to-night.
So I've sent a detailed description of the thing to a friend in New York, who'll look into it for me." He was silent for a little. "Who's Colonel Bohun?" he asked suddenly. "Why do you ask?" "I saw him this evening. She told me his name, but was otherwise inhumanly reticent." "For Josie?" I chuckled; but he didn't respond. So I took up the tale of the first family of Radville.
The little village of Bohun Beacon was perched on a hill so steep that the tall spire of its church seemed only like the peak of a small mountain. At the foot of the church stood a smithy, generally red with fires and always littered with hammers and scraps of iron; opposite to this, over a rude cross of cobbled paths, was "The Blue Boar," the only inn of the place.
His head rolled round, and his eyes now were covered with snow. We dragged him, and he bumped grotesquely. We had him under the wall, near the two women, and the blood welled out and dripped in a spreading pool at the women's feet. "Now," said Bohun, "we've got to run for it." "Do you know," said I, as though I were making a sudden discovery, "I don't think I can."
In the north, Andrew of Moray headed a rising in Strathspey. In central Scotland the justiciar barely escaped capture, while holding his court at Scone. The south-west, the home both of Wallace and Douglas, proved the most dangerous district. There the barons, imitating Bohun and Bigod, based their opposition to Edward on his claim upon their compulsory service in the French wars.
The woman, not moving from the wall, said, "They've shot my husband... he did nothing." The other woman, on her knees, only cried without ceasing. The merchant said, "I'm going back to the Europe," and he turned and ran. "What's down that street?" I said to the woman, as though I expected her to say "Hobgoblins." Bohun said, "This is rather beastly.... We ought to move that fellow out of that.
He had very fine hands, but quite peculiar ones. The second and third fingers were the same length. Oh, that's the colonel right enough." As he glanced at the brained corpse upon the ground the iron eyes of the motionless blacksmith followed them and rested there also. "Is Colonel Bohun dead?" said the smith quite calmly. "Then he's damned." "Don't say anything!
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