I’m the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. Now lend me your own hand. The noose was at its throat when I called for help. ‘Well, I can see you won’t let it alone, so what do you propose to do about the wench?’ ‘I’ll die before I let it alone,’ Gerald vowed. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. On beholding the intruders, his fears changed to exultation, and he uttered a roar of satisfaction as he glared at them, which could only be likened to the cry of some savage denizen of the plains. .
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