“Don’t!” cried Ann Veronica, struggling faintly, and he released her. “But a boy—a boy goes out into the world and presently stands on his own feet. The pistol, it was not loaded. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss.
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