Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. “I say, daddy,” she began, and was suddenly short of breath. 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. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. “I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister.
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