"You will not sleep so soundly even now as the fellow you brought down so deftly in that first skirmish. You have got your hand in at last."
Osric smiled with gratified vanity—he was young and craved such glory.
"Good-night, Alain." He could hardly articulate the words from fatigue, and Alain had had even a harder day.
They slept almost as soundly as the dead they had left behind them; no spectres haunted them and disturbed their repose; conscience was hardened, scarred as with a hot iron, but her time was yet to come for Osric.
FOOTNOTES:
[21] Rien de plus gai que nos vieux contes—ils n'ont que trois plaisanteries—le desespoir du mari, les cris du battu, la grimace du pendu: au troisieme la gaiete est au comble, on se tient les cotés.—Michelet.
[22] i.e. Mangonels, arbalasts, and the like.