‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that. Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the ambrosian fluid. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. Prudence shook her head. Man's fate is in his own hands. She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed.
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