Sepulchre's church struck one, on the eventful night of the 10th of June, (to which it will not be necessary to recur,) a horseman, mounted on a powerful charger, and followed at a respectful distance by an attendant, galloped into the open space fronting Newgate, and directed his course towards a house in the Old Bailey. He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. He returned the locket without comment.
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