. . Efforts were made to staunch his wounds and surgical assistance sent for. He had a peculiar way of stepping in, in a parry; knew his arm, and its just time of moving; put a firm faith in that, and never let his opponent escape. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. By the side of her plate was a small key. A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. " "Hold your tongue, hussy!" cried her husband gruffly. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. But probably not the truth. ‘It is all too probable that she would wish to change into lay clothing to escape recognition. "How?" cried her brother, starting. “I think that’s the right name.
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