"I will live," cried Blueskin, with a look of the deadliest hatred at Wild, "to be revenged on you. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way of yawning when she awoke. Wood!" "Leave go!" thundered Blueskin—"leave go—you'd better!"—and he held the sack as firmly as he could with one hand, while with the other he searched for his knife. "He'll not trouble you on the liquor side, Mac. But to plunge blindly into the unknown!" "I had to! I had to!" She had told him only the first part of her story. Ah, if I had written that!" "Don't you want to live?" "I don't know; I really don't know. And since then, he has openly avowed his determination of cutting his master's throat on the slightest inkling of treachery. “Well,” she admitted. He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715. He added, ‘Also others, but I don’t recall them. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. .
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