Drummond, who had been about to speak, refrained. She had not been sufficiently prompted in relation to the ways of caravansaries; but her mind had been alert and receptive. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood on it. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured.
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