But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. “This ain’t no place for you. Or felt it. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles's church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later. The only mercy you can show me is to kill me. The will to live had returned. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. “I am sorry,” he said slowly.
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