It was a long time before Martin Moreland opened his eyes. Another long time elapsed before he allowed her to assist him to her room, where he dropped upon the bed and lay struggling to attain self-control.
“Can you feel if my skull is cracked?” he asked Marcia.
“I was afraid to try,” she answered. “I don’t think that it is.”
“Feel!” he said. “Push against the scalp hard. See if it gives any, if you can detect a seam.”
With sick eyes and nauseated lips, Marcia knelt beside Martin Moreland and felt his temple, ran her fingers through the thick, light hair covering his head.
“I am quite sure it is only a surface cut,” she said.
Strengthened by the brandy and recovering slightly from the shock, Martin Moreland stopped raving. In slow, deliberate pauses of finality he laid down the law: “I will not risk coming in contact with that hound pup again,” he said. “After this he’ll shift for himself. After this you are going to live where such a scene cannot be repeated. You can get ready what you want to take with you. You are going to leave this house inside of an hour, if my legs will carry me down town.”
Despite her entreaties, he arose and staggered from the house. It was not an hour later until a dray stood before the door. The beautiful room was dismantled, and into the night, with her personal belongings heaped around her, Marcia was driven from the only home she had.
CHAPTER V
“The Verdict Goes Against Jezebel”