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She proffered her neck towards him. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. 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. "It reminds you of a red sea suddenly petrified. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another.
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