I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. A woman was born to have children, particularly male children. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—but that wouldn't serve my turn. But you! Ruth is your lawful wife. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. I'm in a funk," Spurlock confessed. He took up his hat and went.
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