I thought he might be about to apologize for his rudeness.

And so perhaps he did, but it was in his own way.
"Did you spoil your dagger on him ?" he said, anxiously, for the first time speaking to me as a man speaks to his equal.
"No," said I, "but I stubbed my toe most confoundedly, jarring it upon the rascal's backbone as he went through the door." "Ah!" he replied, thoughtfully, nodding his head, "that was more fitting for such as he.

But you may get a chance at him with the dagger yet or the night be over." And with that he went back to his door, blowing up his slow-match as he went.
Presently the supper was pronounced cooked, and, after washing his hands, Jorian resumed his coat, amid the universal attention of the motley crew in the great hall, and began to dish up the fragrant stew.

Ho had been collecting for it all day upon the march, now knocking over a rabbit with a bolt from his gun, now picking some leaves of lettuce and watercress when he chanced upon a running stream or a neglected garden--of which last (thanks to Duke Casimir and his raiders) there were numbers along the route we had traversed.
Then, when he had made all ready, our sturdy cook dished the stew into a great wooden platter--rabbits, partridges, scraps of dried flesh, bits of bacon for flavoring, fresh eggs, vegetables in handfuls, all covered with a dainty-smelling sauce, deftly compounded of milk, gravy, and red wine.
Then Jorian and Boris, one taking the heap of wooden platters and the other the smoking bowl of stew, marched solemnly within.

But before he went, Boris handed me his pistolet without a word, and the slow-match with it.