’ ‘Your husband?’ Gerald tutted. On approaching the couch, they found Sir Rowland senseless, and extended over the dead body of his unfortunate sister. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Abruptly, Gerald turned. The man himself was not a pleasant object. “I could not have stayed in Paris and waited for news. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly.
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