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It would have been but half the labor to have begun at the beginning instead of at Stefana's poor little end. At midnight, Miss Theodosia made herself cups of tea and sipped them thirstily. A wrist, both thumbs, and her testing forefinger smarted; she was tired and disheveled. But the spirit of adventure refused to die. The fire burned red-hot and the irons must cool again.
Her disheveled hair and panting bosom betokened that, chained though she was, still had she fought against the thing that they would do to her. At sight of her Salensus Oll rose and drew his sword, and the sword of each of the fifty nobles was raised on high to form an arch, beneath which the poor, beautiful creature was dragged toward her doom.
She went back to Florence, who dried her tears and unburdened her heart, and then in her turn became alarmed about Dimple, since no amount of hunting disclosed her whereabouts. Mrs. Dallas was, herself, becoming much worried, when the door slowly opened and a disheveled little figure stood before them, with soaking garments and sodden shoes.
By the time Ashe had done his best with the disheveled fried egg, the chicory blasphemously called coffee, and the charred bacon, misery had him firmly in its grip. And when he forced himself to the table, and began to try to concoct the latest of the adventures of Gridley Quayle, Investigator, his spirit groaned within him.
Yet the car roared up, rolling the dust, flying capes and veils and ulsters, and crashed and cracked to a halt in the yard before the porch. Madeline descried a gray, disheveled mass of humanity packed inside the car. Besides the driver there were seven occupants, and for a moment they appeared to be coming to life, moving and exclaiming under the veils and wraps and dust-shields.
A noted Athenian orator, Callistratus, has given us a picture of the work of art: "Opportunity was a boy in the flower of his youth, handsome in mien, his hair fluttering at the caprice of the wind, leaving his locks disheveled. Like Dionysius, his forehead shone with grace, and his cheeks glowed with splendor.
For the man running was Miller; Miller, wild, sobbing, disheveled, his shoulders drawn up to his ears in terrible weariness, his whole body taut with fear, and scudding, scudding away, low along the ground, his chin forward, mournful as a stork.
It was old Suma-theek with four of his Indians. They held, tightly bound with belts and bandanas, two disheveled little hombres. "Take 'em to jail, Boss?" panted Suma-theek. "I find 'em trying get back to lower town!" "No! No! Back up into the mountains. I'll get horses to you and you must take them to Cabillo. Lord, I forgot to warn you!" Suma-theek turned quickly but not quickly enough.
Without ado, the lean, wild man of the Sahara was led, in wrinkled burnous, with disheveled hair, wild eyes, and an expression of helpless despair, to where the Master stood. At sight of the massed horsemen, the grassy plain a sight never yet beheld by him and the distant golden, glimmering walls, a look of desperation flashed into his triple-scarred face.
Her matted hair was bound in two disheveled braids around her head and secured with a piece of shoe-string. Her dirty round face was lighted up by a pair of dancing blue eyes, in which just now blazed the unholy light of conflict. The feud between the Calvary Micks and the choir boys was an ancient one, carried on from one generation to another and gaining prestige with age.
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