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Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. "It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. "Hoddy, wake up!" She jerked his head to and fro until the hair stung. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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