On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. They would arrest him for the French spy they had thought her at first. “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. —There, Mr. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self.
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