Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. She could not realize what she saw. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. He had heard nothing.
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