"Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. He was never known to err, and was as much dreaded as the jailfever in consequence. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. And, to show you that I have no intention of flying, I will myself close and lock the door. But tell me one thing I don’t understand—tell me one thing: How can you help it by coming down into the battle and the mire? That’s the thing that concerns me.
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