Leastways, not on your own. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Such pretty manners, she thought. I shall count it a privilege. He was speedily disarmed; and the rope and gag being found upon him, were exultingly turned against him by his conqueror, who, after pinioning his arms tightly behind his back, forced open his mouth with the iron, and effectually prevented the utterance of any further outcries. She brought the unconscious man down. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. The tail-ender of this little caravan, he had been rather out of it. "Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?" "Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly. “About two years ago. There was a flash and a loud report.
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