" "How long have I been in bed?" "A week. Here, it might be anything at all. "Hell-hounds!" he cried; "release me!" At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave. ’ ‘The horse?’ echoed Melusine. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. “I am off to-night,” he said.
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