By Rene Goscinny, Albert Uderzo
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Padorin fancied he could discern the lad’s agonised cries amid all the rest. Imagined or no, he clutched his reins in both hands and ground his teeth in the illest humour possible, yanking his horse around in a punishing turn. The French muskets cracked off another volley of shots all along the wall of infantry. Padorin rode straight back at them. But he rode tall and high in the saddle and fixed his furious eyes solely on the fallen Alexander. Even if his thoughts were fixed, with passing shame, elsewhere: here was a tale with which to regale the ladies in those ballrooms; oh yes, he could not cage the pride that took a hold of him at the idea.
Pain moved through him like a viciously spiked python lodged in his gut. He tasted the blood and acid swilling around in there. ’ He wasn’t up to working any better answers out of her, and he wasn’t sure he cared. He just wanted to curl up and die. Failing that, if he could just get back to the camp and see if any of those meds had been worth packing, well – he might get himself fit enough to redeem the mission. He wasn’t going back empty-handed. Either way though, those meds were supposed to put you out for a day or more while you healed.
And since that didn’t appear to be on the cards any time in the near future – well, it was a convenient inconvenience for Patricia Atherton. Still, he couldn’t quite decide whether he was dealing with a consummate actress or just a genuine English eccentric with something to hide. The slower Mr Kreiner, like a poor supporting actor letting down the star performer, had betrayed her identity as a falsehood with his momentary glimmer of surprise at the drop of her assumed name. But then, with his shabby demeanour and unkempt hair, he looked like he belonged backstage.