charged

hat off his head (the bright ostrich feather clashed, I thought, with the logic of the blackened face) and waved it about.
“Citizens of Goimr!” he cried, addressing the small crowd which was gazing upon the Commandos. “Your noble Commandos are off to capture the renegade Zulkeh—the sorcerer satanic!—the—” Here he fell off his horse. When he clambered back on, he made to resume his speech, but his now-surly horse would have none of it, and charged through the gate. The rest of the Commandos lunged off in pursuit.
The guards at the gate drew their swords in a ragged salute.
“Hail the noble Royal Commandos!” cried the sergeant.
“Hail the nobleroilcomdos,” muttered the guards in response.
“Death to the satanic sorcerer Zulkeh!” cried the sergeant.
“Death to the s’tancsorcerZully,” muttered the guards apathetically.
These duties performed, the sergeant and the guards resumed their inspection of the papers of those seeking passage through the gate. My hopes of success in deceiving these vigilant men of war, let me say, were now quite high.
Soon enough, it was our turn. My papers were examined cursorily. The sergeant essayed a squaring of the shoulders in respect of Gerard’s signature, failed miserably, resumed his slouch, and waved us through.
Since he seemed harmless enough, I decided to satisfy my curiosity.
“Who is this sorcerer the Commandos are pursuing?” I asked.
I got back in reply a garbled and not very coherent account of the misdeeds of the wizard Zulkeh, in which the