She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes. While he was thus standing, the flames of his house, which made the whole street as light as day, and ruddily illumined the faces of the mob below, betrayed him to them, and he was speedily driven from his position by a shower of stones and other missiles.
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