Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his way, in spite of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to the cart, and offered his large horny hand to the prisoner. Don’t favour your father much, either, if it comes to that. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired.
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