" "True, true," replied the knight, with an agonized look; "there is no alternative. I'm not particular what or where. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. "But I'll yet disappoint you. “You need a reason. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name.
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