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Schreiber, who hated Jim and all the virile Americanism that he stood for. Pederson and the two reporters I didn't know, but they were no doubt of the same vile breed. A fine gang of cutthroats who would have liked nothing better than to get rid of Jim. They probably saw his big search-light, that makes his car easily recognizable, and realized their opportunity had come.
Because we rebel, you throw us in prison, making a mockery of your boasted liberty. So they did for a time in Russia. You call us 'cutthroats. It's a good term. I hope to God we earn that title." Finding that the talk was turning into a political harangue, I turned my back on Zalnitch and started toward the door. Schreiber followed me. "Chust one minud." There was heavy menace in his look.
And as to her personal appearance, Brentano and Loeben simply tell us that she was beautiful, Brentano employing the Homeric method of proving her beauty by its effects. Heine and Schreiber not only comment upon her physical beauty, they also tell us how she enhanced her natural charms by zealously attending to her hair and her jewelry and religiously guarding the color scheme in so doing.
The deadly fear which had been breathed into him by Mrs. Schreiber's scale of expenditure in a Park Lane house proved her most salutary ally. Could that be reckoned an anodyne for the torment connected with a course of Schreiber? I pretend to no opinion. Such were the facts: and exactly at this point in her career had Mrs.
"Die then in thy obstinacy, miserable woman," cried the Ober-Amtmann in a suppressed voice "Let justice take its course!" "Denouncer!" said the chief schreiber to the witchfinder, "hast thou further evidence to offer?" "Needs it more to convict a criminal of the foul and infernal practices of witchcraft?" cried Black Claus with bitterness.
Schreiber had just come sliding, stumbling, down from Winsor's perch to say they could hear faint sound of sharp volleying far out to the eastward, where the warriors, evidently, were trying to "stand off" Webb's skirmish line until the travois with the wounded and the escort of the possible prisoners should succeed in getting back out of harm's way and taking surer and higher trail into the thick of the wilderness back of Bear Cliff.
That was the elementary base of Schreiber; and the superstructure, or Corinthian decoration of his frontispiece, was, that Schreiber cultivated one sole science, namely, the science of taking snuff.
"Give this to the captain," was the word sent back by Schreiber, and "this" was a mitten of Indian tanned buckskin, soft and warm if unsightly, a mitten too small for a warrior's hand, if ever warrior deigned to wear one, a mitten the captain examined curiously, as he ploughed ahead of his main body, and then returned to his subaltern with a grin on his face: "Beauty draws us with a single hair," said he, "and can't shake us even when she gives us the mitten.
So did Lieutenant Schreiber. Colonel Hunt fell, shot in two places. Officers and men were falling fast. The guns could not be worked, and yet they could not be removed, for every effort to bring up teams from the shelter where the limbers lay ended in the death of the horses.
Schreiber was now confessedly dying: medical skill could do no more for her; and this being so, there was no reason why she should continue to exchange her own quiet little Rutlandshire cottage for the discomforts of smoky lodgings.
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