“Please stop fighting me. Let the law put its hand on his shoulder—if it could! But at present he was at liberty, and he purposed to remain in that state. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. Baffled in their attempt, the mob uttered a roar, such as only a thousand angry voices can utter, and discharged a volley of missiles at the soldiery. “Have you not missed me?” He inquired. Her likeness to her sister gave him at first almost a shock; a moment afterwards he was conscious of a wonderful sense of relief.
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