The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions. "'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. Not at all.
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