Wood, was much better furnished with eatables than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a meat-pie, and a flask of wine. " "Suffer me to proceed," replied the stranger. "Mother!" cried Jack, springing towards her. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. Here, then, but for the time and place, might be another Sidney Carton.
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