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Updated: June 12, 2025
From such a vantage-point he could surely fix upon landmarks for his future guidance in penetrating the labyrinth of streets. It would not be a pleasant experience to lose one's way, and, perhaps, stumble by mistake on Master Quinton Edge's front door. Now, as Constans travelled onward, the ruined city began to grow upon him in ever heavier and darker mass.
But she accomplished the task of putting the signal-cloth in position, and, still shaking with cold and excitement, began to retrace her steps. At the entrance to Quinton Edge's room she stopped again, not out of curiosity, but as though yielding to the pressure of an invisible hand. The door still stood ajar, but there was no sound of voices.
Southend, all his grievance revived, fell on him tooth and nail. His defence was feeble; he admitted that he knew next to nothing of curries, and yes, the cook did get careless when Wilmot Edge's vigilant eye was removed. "He'll be home soon," Gore-Marston pleaded. "I've had a letter from him; he's just got back to civilization after being out in the wilderness, shooting, for six weeks.
Yet he scarcely felt the smart; he stood motionless, looking upon the wreck of his little world, the only one that he had ever known. "So in the end he made me a coward as well," said the boy, speaking softly to himself. "Is it that a slave must be a slave always?" He drew a long breath. "No, not always. But in the mean time I am to go on living and bearing everywhere his mark Quinton Edge's mark.
He knew who Wilmot Edge was, and it was funny to hear of him again in connection with curries. And curries seemed the only reason why anybody should be interested in Colonel Edge's return. Not till they met again in the smoking-room were the curries finally forgotten. In later days Harry came to look back on that afternoon as the beginning of many new things for him.
"Frankly, then, I don't want to carry the weight of the wolf-skin; I should feel like a man buried up to his neck in sand. I dreamed of that the other night, and how a raven that had Quinton Edge's face came and pecked at my eyes." "Then you really don't care," commented Constans, shrewdly. "No; except to have my fair share of the fighting and feasting and, of course, Esmay." Constans laughed.
Two slashes of his hunting-knife and a tiny, triangular nick appeared on the upper part of the lad's right ear. "That is my sign-manual of which I spoke to you an hour or more ago. It is Quinton Edge's mark, as all men know, and it brands whatever bears it as Quinton Edge's property. Some day I may deem it worth while to claim my own; until then you can be my caretaker, my tenant. What! no answer?
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