‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. His relation of the murder of Sir Rowland petrified even his fierce auditors. Do you know how late it is?” She nodded. Hoddy! All her fears fell away. . The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Now, Sir," he added, turning to Jonathan, as Sir Cecil and his followers obeyed his injunctions, "you say you know the road which the person whom we seek has taken?" "I do," replied Jonathan.
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