Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. I believed that she was my wife, or she would have been safe from me. She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered.
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