Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. “I see the pointer,” she said. "Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne.
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