He walked unsteadily towards the door. 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. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. On Sunday, he was conveyed to the chapel, through which he had passed on the occasion of his great escape, and once more took his seat in the Condemned Pew. Once more he begged; but as Ruth only repeated her sharp command, he spun about and raced toward the jungle.
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