“I don’t believe there is one. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. They'll inspect the schooner on the way back," McClintock lied, cheerfully. By instinct. Happily they had no one else to wait for, and it heartened her mightily to think that she had ordered the promptest possible service of the dinner. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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