16/47 Eleven! Conceited fellow! Who told you that your one life was worth the eleven which you have taken ?' Bran went up to the corpse--perhaps from its sitting posture fancying it still living--smelt the cold cheek, and recoiled with a mournful whine. All your wounds in front, as a man's should be. Poor fop! Lais and Thais will never curl those dainty ringlets for you again! What is that bas-relief upon your shield? |