Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. At the bottom of her heart she was not a bit afraid of Ramage. He rested on one elbow. "You are my prisoner, Jack. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. It will be hot work, but it must be done at once. She remembered the doctor's warning that the real battle would begin when the patient recovered consciousness. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. The girl wished that she had come afoot, despite the knowledge that she would have suffered many inconveniences, accidental and intentional jostling, insolence and ribald jest. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own.
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