But as for
myself, Marmion M.D., I'm sick--sick--sick of this woman, and all her
words and works. I believe that she has brought bad luck to this ship;
and it's my last voyage on it; and--and I begin to think you're a damned
good fellow--excuse the insolence of it; and--good-night."
For the rest of the night I listened to Galt Roscoe's wild words. He
tossed from side to side, and murmured brokenly. Taken separately, and as
they were spoken, his words might not be very significant, but pieced
together, arranged, and interpreted through even scant knowledge of
circumstances, they were sufficient to give me a key to difficulties
which, afterwards, were to cause much distress. I arrange some of the
sentences here to show how startling were the fancies--or
remembrances--that vexed him.
"But I was coming back--I was coming back--I tell you I should have
stayed with her for ever. . . . See how she trembles!--Now her breath is
gone--There is no pulse--Her heart is still--My God, her heart is
still!--Hush! cover her face. . . . Row hard, you devils!
--A hundred dollars if you make the point in time.
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