"In Heaven's name! what's all this?" cried Wood. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. He was at length rescued from his assailants,— rescued to perish, seven months afterwards, with every ignominy, at the very gibbet to which he had brought his victim. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. "If you touch me I will kill you," said Ruth, grasping the scissors which lay beside the pencils—Hoddy's! The Wastrel laughed, still advancing. I am tired, and I want to be alone.
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