She paused for a moment. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. She stood there limply and did not act to resist him. Spurlock advanced, the censer swung high. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. In this state, he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while his wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the house, and driven out of the Mint.
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