In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. Do you accept it?" "Dear Thames!" "Forgive this ill-timed avowal of my love. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!— let him deny it if he can. That’s the fact of the matter. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction.
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