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On visiting the narrow pass where the defeat had taken place, the remains of several Christian warriors were found in thickets or hidden behind rocks or in the clefts of the mountains. These were some who had been struck from their horses and wounded too severely to fly.
Now at first it seemed as if the only thing for us to do was to go ashore in the boat as quickly as we could and get away; but Thord cried to me: "Then will the Danes take our ship to sea, and we have lost her for good. It should not be said of us that we let her go without a blow struck to save her."
A high silk hat in Galway would have called attention to his age, so the difficulty of costume was ingeniously compromised by a tall felt, a cross between a pot and a chimney-pot. For collars, a balance had been struck between the jaw-scrapers of old time and the nearest modern equivalent; and in the tying of the large cravat there was a reminiscence, but nothing more, of the past generation.
King Arthur approached the monster, and said to him: "Wretch, awake and fight, for your hour has come." The giant, starting up, looked down scornfully upon the king and, laughing, threw his great club at Arthur. But the king leapt aside and the club fell harmlessly on the ground, making a hollow where it struck. Then Arthur rushed toward the giant, waving his good sword Excalibur.
I don't know you, and I don't understand your jokes." He turned quickly away from me when he had said the last words. He had never once looked fairly at me since I first spoke to him. Was it his hand that had struck the blow? I had only sixpence in my pocket, but I took it out and followed him. If it had been a five-pound note I should have done the same in the state I was in then.
At the beginning of the village street stood the corner grocery; a wooden awning in front, some men loafing at the door, who looked up as the sound of Bressant's passing struck their ears; within, an indistinct vision of barrels of produce, hams pendent from the dusky ceiling, some brooms in a corner, and a big cheese upon the counter.
Instinctively his first act was to clutch the papers, and as he did so he was struck from behind and fell unconscious to the ground. As his senses passed from him, he was dimly conscious of a surprise that neither man was Josef. A sleepy determination possessed him to hold grimly to the papers. Then all was blank. He wished they wouldn't annoy him, he remonstrated drowsily.
He had the rod out and was spraying on tight beam straight at the Throg's head before the first stone struck his shoulder and his weapon fell from a numbed hand. But a second stone tumbled out of the Throg's claw. The alien tried to reach for it, his movements slow, uncertain. Shann, his arm dangling, went in fast, bracing his good shoulder against the boulder which pinned the Throg.
He never kills more than he has occasion for. The white hunter destroys all before him, and cannot resist the opportunity of killing game, although he neither wants the meat nor can carry the skins. I was particularly struck with this wanton practice, which lately occurred on White river.
I passed it again the other day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago. Men frequently say to me, "I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights especially."
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