The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. Stay! I'll go myself. If he had got off, they might have hanged me, and welcome. "You speak English better than I do," said O'Higgins, as the coolies jogged across the bridge toward the gate. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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