Still, her face never betrayed this distraction. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. He was looking pale and ill. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge.
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