The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. Who could say that the two weren't in collusion? When a chap like Spurlock jumped the traces, cherchez la femme, every time. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy.
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