” She took his hand, interrupting him. Taking the wind was her business in life. 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. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her. We shall have a reg'lar squall afore we gets across. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible.
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