“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. "Well, how goes it?" he asked. "Lor' ha' mussy, Sir!—how you do talk," said the woman; "this is no robber, I'm sure. Little more’n a week. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations,—for he was completely out of breath,— the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the carpenter, and, regardless of the consternation he excited in the breast of that personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment, he began to divest himself of a heavy horseman's cloak, which he threw over Wood's shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen intently for the approach of his pursuers.
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