“He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. But he had scarcely advanced a step, when he was felled to the ground by a blow from the powerful arm of Kneebone, who, instantly possessing himself of a pistol, levelled it at Jackson's head. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him. As the woollendraper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him, but continued his passionate addresses. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. FOOTNOTES: [A] At the hospital of Saint Giles for Lazars, the prisoners conveyed from the City of London towards Tyburn, there to be executed for treasons, felonies, or other trespasses, were presented with a Bowl of Ale, thereof to drink, as their last refreshing in this life.
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