She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. 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'd have enough to do to protect himself, without attending to you. Thames, meanwhile, had drawn his sword, and was about to rush upon Jonathan; but he was withheld by Wood. “You haven’t come here to make a lot of difficulties?” she asked. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her.
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