Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. 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. They were silent and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious action of the chairs. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. There was just time for the girl to raise her arm to chest height and draw it back before Roding seized her. "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from.
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