He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. ” “I cannot do it!” he cried hoarsely. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. Manning, with a baffling smile. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. ” Her eyes were lit with humour. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth.
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