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CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. "I've counted ten coffins so far. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. "The danger's past," whispered Bess. . ’ She put in her request for this requirement immediately on returning to the little parlour downstairs, and instantly fell foul of Captain Roding again. " "Faix, then we'll do it in style," cried the fellow. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. "One of us has got to die," he panted. She found presently she was out of the dock and confronted with the alternative of being bound over in one surety for the sum of forty pounds— whatever that might mean or a month’s imprisonment. ’ She spoke with difficulty, holding down the rising emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me.
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