The little band of Europeans returned from the pursuit, drenched with sweat, panting, like a squad of triumphant football players; but no one smiled.
"That explains it," grumbled Heywood.

He pointed along the path to where, far off, a tall, stooping figure paced slowly toward the town, his long robe a moving strip of color, faint in the twilight.

"The Sword-Pen dropped some remarks in passing." The others nodded moodily, too breathless for reply.

Nesbit's forehead bore an ugly cut, Rudolph's bandage was red and sopping.

Chantel, more rueful than either, stared down at a bleeding hand, which held two shards of steel.