“I do.”
“Where?”
“A gaol from which there can be no escape—need I name it?”
“You need not. There’s but one will answer your description—the grave.”
With this solemn conjecture the sotto voce conversation comes to a close, the ruffians riding at the head of their troop, far extending after, its files resembling the vertebrae of some grand glittering serpent on its way to seize a victim, the two in front fair types of its protruding poisonous fangs.
Chapter Forty Seven.
A Coming Cloud.
Between lovers, those who truly love, the parting is ever painful Frank Hamersley, taking leave of Adela Miranda, feels this as does Walt Wilder separating from Conchita.