“I must go. Kneebone,—pray go!" implored Winifred. Alarmed by the noise of the scuffle, Quilt and Sharples rushed to the assistance of their comrade. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. But God will punish you for what you have done this day. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction.
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