‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. And you need not fear that I shall not give back the sword when I have finished using it. Ruth loved him. She turned quickly.
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