So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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