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. Wasn't the river beautiful under the moonlight?" "We did not leave our cabins. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion. "Hush!—come hither, and I'll tell you. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. We are alone and we can say and do what we please.
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