He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. CHAPTER XXVII. He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. " "You shall be treated according to your deserts, then," said Jonathan, maliciously. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes.
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