“Oh! don’t go, don’t go!” she whispered.
He smiled down upon her.
“I will parley voo from the passage, my dear; and Will shall point his barrel at the key-hole.”
He strode out of the room and cried in a sharp voice: “Who’s there?”
“John Fern, by your leave, sir.”
The answer sang in muffled by the thick oak.
“Are you tired of life, fellow?”
“I am a humble dependent on your bounty, Mr. Tuke. I come with a flag of truce, trusting to your honour.”
“I have none for vermin. We may shoot such sitting.”
“Be generous, sir. We are trapped. Frost and starvation have worked for you.”