Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. He declined supper, but took wine. Wear one on the stage on the following day. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. It proved to be a human head, though with scarcely a vestige of the features remaining. The moment my escape is known, a large reward will be placed on my head. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words.
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