Drummond patted him on the shoulder. " "Never mind," returned the stranger, dismounting; "you'll recollect me by and by, I've no doubt. I do not intend to allow you to forget. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. That's part of the bargain. A fresh cool breeze blew in their faces. Their flitting hands were always touching. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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