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They bounced without merriment over bumpy Roman roads, and by the time they arrived she was extremely nauseous. Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. But next moment, Captain Roding put up her back. 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. There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical.
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