The contest, however, though desperate, was brief. Sheppard looked round, and exchanged kindly glances with several of those who addressed him. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten human ears rent the air. It was red and chapped. “It really is not necessary. What is it?" "Guess," rejoined Blueskin, attempting to throw a gallant expression into his forbidding countenance.
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