Mazarine had not been able to find his horses at any hotel or livery stable, or in any street.

It was at the moment, when, in his distraction, he had decided to walk back to Tralee, that Orlando, driving up the street, saw him.

Orlando reined in his horses dropped from his buggy and approached him.
There was a look in Orlando's eyes which was a reflection from a remote past, from ancestors who had settled their troubles with the first weapon and the best opportunity to their hands.

"The furrin element in him," as Jonas Billings called it, had been at full flood ever since he had bade his mother good-bye.

A storm of anger had been raised in him.
As he said to himself, he had had enough; he had been filled up to the chin by the Mazarine business; and his impulsive youth wanted to end it by some smashing act which would be sensational and decisive.