The door was locked; but, with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open. Some rustic hand had written upon the door "JACK SHEPPARD'S CAGE;" and upon the wall was affixed a large placard describing his person, and offering a reward for his capture. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. From your pocket there. But this child! … It's a damnable business!" "I shall defend her and protect her with every drop of blood in my body!" replied the Flagellant. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. "What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony. Even if he were an old friend, you couldn't afford to do it.
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