The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. “The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. Ah! I have it," he added, after a moment's deliberation; "he's there, I'll be sworn. " "My turn comes before yours, Sir," interposed his better half. " "They're not half heavy enough," replied Wild. ” She said as she rested her head against his chest, eyes unfocused on the fading sky. “I should like to understand you,” he said. "I give it to King James—not so you: for the furtherance of a great and holy cause, not for the prosecution of wild and unprofitable schemes. Taber?" He wondered if this crystal being was interested in that blundering fool who had gone recklessly into the city.
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