"'Sblood!" exclaimed Jonathan, hastily thrusting the ring into his vest, and taking up a heavy horseman's pistol with which he had felled Blueskin,—"I thought you'd been senseless. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse. ” “I shall do very well, thank you, ma’am,” he answered shortly. The young man had knocked over the siphon. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. When the hero finally did appear, Ruth became filled with gentle self-mockery.
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