He was white as death, and pointed to the hilt of my sword and the demi-bear engrav’d thereon.
“He is dead,” I whisper’d: “hush!—turn your face aside—killed by those same dogs that are now below.”
I heard a sob in the true fellow’s throat. But on the instant it was drown’d by the sound of a door opening and the tramp of feet on the stairs.
CHAPTER VI. — THE FLIGHT IN THE PINE WOOD.
By the sound of their steps I guess’d one or two of these dozen rascals to be pretty far gone in drink, and afterward found this to be the case. I look’d round. Sir Deakin had pick’d up the lamp and was mixing his bowl of punch, humming to himself without the least concern——
“Vivre en tout cas C’est le grand soulas”—
with a glance at his daughter’s face, that was white to the lips, but firmly set.
“Hand me the nutmeg yonder,” he said, and then, “why, daughter, what’s this?—a trembling hand?”