While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. A swift frown brought the still dark brows together for a moment. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze. " "Curse you!" cried Jack, furiously,—"curse you!—curse you!" "Swear away, Captain," rejoined Blueskin, coolly. " "Never fear," replied Thames, taking up his hat. " "I declare I don't know what to do," said Wood, burned by conflicting emotions. As to following, there was no one. Sheppard. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. Get on, do. Here was one that subtly mocked her. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it.
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