She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand. 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. Aren’t I asking—asking plainly now?.
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