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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. He passed his arm under that of the constable, and drew him aside. ‘This journey I do not like,’ she said more loudly. "Fear!" echoed Wild, in a terrible tone,—"fear! Repeat that word again, and nothing shall save you. She was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black. By the by, my dear, I forgot to ask your name—perhaps you'll oblige me with it now? Hell and the devil!—gone!" He looked around in vain. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction.
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