e to the fore, he had drained a stronger and deeper
draught to "Snaffle, spur, and spear!"

"A mere stage trick," Keene remarked; "effective, but not in the least
dangerous, with a horse under you as steady as poor old Mahmoud. May his
rest be glorious! Gilbert killed a tiger that had got loose in the same
way, which _was_ something to talk about, for even clean-bred Arabs
don't like facing tigers. You made rather better time than usual over
that story to-night, Hal; it's practice, I suppose."

Tresilyan's eyes fastened on the speaker, full of a heavy, pertinacious
admiration. You might have told him of the noblest action of generosity
or self-denial that ever constituted the stock in trade of a moral hero,
and he would have listened patiently, but without one responsive
emotion. Bodily prowess and daring he could appreciate. Keene's physical
_prestige_ was just the thing to captivate his limited imagination;
besides which the ground was prepared for the seed-time. He had some
soldier friends, and dining with these at the "Swashing Buckler," he had
heard some of those club chronicles in which the Cool Captain's name
figured prominently.

The latter interpreted perfectly well the gaze that was riveted upon
him, without being in the least flattered by it. He felt, perhaps, the
same sort of satisfaction that one experiences when, fighting for the
odd trick, the first card in our hand is a heavy trump. Dick's thorough
and undivided allegiance once secured, was a good card in the game he
was playing at the moment. Whatever his thoughts might have been, his
face told no tales. He had been flooring glass for glass with his guest
till the liquor began to work its way into the cracks even of such a
seasoned vessel; but, for any outward or visible sign in feature,
speech, or manner, he might have been assisting at a teetotaller's
_soiree_.

Very often--late on guest-nights, or other tournaments of deep drinking,
where Trojan and Tyrian met to do battle for the credit of their
respective corps--the calm, rigid face, never flushing beyond a clear
swarthy brown, and the cold, bright, inevitable eyes, had stricken
terror into the hearts of bacchanalian Heavies, and given consolation,
if not confidence, to the Hussars, who were failing fast: these knew
that though their own brains might be reeling and their legs
rebelliously independent, their single champion was invincible. As the
last of the Enomotae went down, he saw Othryades