And all the time the wicked
little fool was lying to me. It was their plot, their conspiracy! These
conspiracies are the devil. She has been leading me on, till she has
fairly put my head under the heel of that jailer, of that scoundrel, of
her husband . . . Treachery! Bringing me low. Lower than herself. In
the dirt. That's what it means. Doesn't it? Under his heel!"
He paused in his restless shuffle and again, seizing his cap with both
hands, dragged it furiously right down on his ears. Powell had lost
himself in listening to these broken ravings, in looking at that old
feverish face when, suddenly, quick as lightning, Mr. Smith spun round,
snatched up the captain's glass and with a stifled, hurried exclamation,
"Here's luck," tossed the liquor down his throat.
"I know now the meaning of the word 'Consternation,'" went on Mr. Powell.
"That was exactly my state of mind. I thought to myself directly:
There's nothing in that drink. I have been dreaming, I have made the
awfulest mistake! . . ."
Mr. Smith put the glass down. He stood before Powell unharmed, quieted
down, in a listening attitude, his head inclined on one side, chewing his
thin lips.
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