" ***** "To me, you dirty blackguard!" cried Spurlock, flinging aside his helmet. Save us!" he cried, as his glance accidentally alighted on the drawing, which Winifred had dropped in her agitation. The prisoner, however, submitted more quietly than was anticipated. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space.
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