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In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. “One doesn’t wait,” said Ann Veronica. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. Such ambitions as he had were stereotyped and material. Rowland, meantime, alarmed by the voices, snatched a torch from his attendant, and holding it over the side of the wherry, witnessed the incident just described. “There’s the whole situation. There must be ways of getting rid of him.
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