” He writhed. "'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. She is no longer mine; she is yours. He was now at the entrance of the chapel, and striking the door over which he had previously climbed a violent blow with the bar, it flew open. " Sir Rowland, meantime, throw himself on his knees beside his sister, and, clasping her chilly fingers within his own, besought her forgiveness in the most passionate terms. " At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand.
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