His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. "If the best nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow his brains out. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk. And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear.
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