"My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. But … he must want to live in order that the inclination to repeat this incident may not recur. Here, it might be anything at all. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. . “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this. For a space he rode the whirligig.
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