A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. "By my shoul!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips, "dat ish goot—very goot. Are you my accuser?" "I am," replied Wild; "have you anything to allege to the contrary?" "Only this," returned Thames: "that the charge is false, and malicious, and that you know it to be so. Just speak the word," he added, drawing the knife significantly across his throat, "and I'll put it out of his power to do the same by your second.
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