He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a chagrined lover. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. Wood resounded from below. “I’m very shy, and I would like to opt out if you don’t mind.
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