But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. "By desire of his Majesty," said the jailer, consequentially. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. Tell me all that happened, one sister-woman to another. 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. We close the chapter.
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