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"By my shoul!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips, "dat ish goot—very goot. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. . " "What proof have you that I am?"—was the return bolt. Neither combatant could use his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. He hated the taste of it. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. Not at all. For some time he could not stir, but felt sick and exhausted. Forgive my daring. The lips of the mask twisted upward into a smile.
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