The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. Ramage’s bitterness passed as abruptly as his aggression.
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