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She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. She addressed an envelope to Ramage, and scrawled on a half-sheet of paper, “The rest shall follow. Get all ready for his reception. She struggled against it quite uselessly. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his fate. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. “I believe it is.
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