A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. There it was—to be borrowed. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. He seated himself before it. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. "Why do you laugh?" he asked.
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