"You are arrested for high treason," rejoined Wild, presenting a pistol at his head, while he drew forth a parchment,—"here is my warrant. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. Vorsack would staunchly disapprove of his attire, said nothing anyway. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. “I will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory. Squads reached to the very portal of that centre of disturbance.
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