” Sir John looked at her sideways. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. With a drawn cutlass in one hand and a cocked pistol in the other, Blueskin rushed up stairs. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. It was not possible. He would take with him that traitress Yolande, and claim to the lawyer that this was Melusine Charvill. Acting upon this humane determination, he impelled himself slowly backwards,—for he did not dare to face the blast,—and with incredible labour and fatigue reached the crevice.
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