” “He only heard this afternoon,” Sydney continued. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. He shook his head. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. ” “I had to,” she repeated. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. Figg?" said Jack, peevishly.
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