Sheppard. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. It was a mad half-hour. Jonathan Wild and his bloodhounds, with a hundred others, incited by the reward, will be upon my track. Almost at the same moment the door opened and Brendon entered, followed by the doctor. The above description of —the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains— may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that "there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;" but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night.
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