Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. Besides those who conducted themselves more peaceably, the conductors of the procession noticed with considerable uneasiness, large bands of men armed with staves, bludgeons, and other weapons, who were flying across the field in the same direction. Kneebone?" "He'd better not," muttered Blueskin. "Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him.
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