Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. But he did not find the sword of monsieur le major, for this sergeant would have recognised it and told me that I am arrested again. Hadn’t the stomach to admit the truth, had he? I’ll lay any money he labelled you with some foul French name as well.
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