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Brant looked the picture of a soldier on duty, trim, well built, erect, his resolute blue eyes never flinching from the steady gaze bent upon ham, his bronzed young face grave from the seriousness of his mission. Neither was a man to temporize, to mince words, or to withhold blows; yet each instinctively felt that this was an occasion rather for self-restraint.
The newspapers of London in speaking of Brant's arrival in England in the latter part of the same year, gave accounts of his lately having presided over a "grand congress of confederate chiefs of the Indian nations in America," and said that Brant had been appointed to the chief command in the war which the Indians meditated against the United States.
"To lecture me on morality, and demand my yielding up all influence over this girl, such a mission is assured of failure. I have listened with some degree of calmness in this room already to one such address, and surrendered to its reasoning. But permit me to say quite plainly, Lieutenant Brant, that you are not the person from whom I will quietly listen to another."
Another prisoner was ransomed by a Detroit trader, and worked out his ransom in Detroit itself. Yet another was redeemed from captivity by the famous Iroquois chief Brant, who was ever a terrible and implacable foe, but a great-hearted and kindly victor.
But whatever their own notion of their relation was, if it was not that of a Brant and a Brautigam, the people of Weimar would have been puzzled to say what it was.
At this moment he started. "Who is that?" he exclaimed. Mrs. Easterfield turned. "Oh, that is Monsieur Emile Du Brant. He is one of the secretaries of the Austrian legation. He is to spend a week with us. Suppose you take my flowers into the house and I will go to meet him."
Fox had heard the serenades, although his consort had slept soundly through the turmoil; and, while carefully avoiding any reference to the incidents of the night, he was anxiously hoping that somebody would say something about them. Mrs. Easterfield saw that Mr. Du Brant was in a bad humor, and she hoped he was angry enough to announce his early departure.
He waited until Scotty was within normal voice range. "Come on into the house," he invited. "We'll get you some aspirin and put a wet towel on your head. The sun's got you, that's all." The dark-haired boy shook his head vehemently. "Don't jump at conclusions in this heat, brother Brant. You'll get overheated. Just listen to what's in this letter." Rick squinted against the glare. "Who's it from?"
"And so you were unafraid of this bullying Will Brant of mine," said the captain, with one of his pleasant smiles. "You clipped his comb right handsomely. And who may ye be, my brave young sprig?" "I am John Spencer Cockrell, may it please you, sir," was the answer. "'Twas a small thing to do for a lady. Your pirate would have been too much for me in a fair set-to." "Pirate?
The clerk was still shaky, and he had a hard time putting his discovery into words. Rick tried to help him out. "He found some cartons that were empty. Transistor cartons, I guess. This was in one of them." Preston's eyes fixed on him. "Who are you?" "My name is Brant, sir. I'm with Pegasus." Preston's eyes acknowledged Rick's name, but he turned to the clerk. "Is that right, Jimmy?
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