That will be a fine day—it will have to be, when first you set eyes on Italy. " "Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard. Whatever may happen to-morrow I shall be none the better for anticipating its miseries to-day. She could not say a word, much less move. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable.
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