Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. "Do not shed more blood," cried the carpenter. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. By degrees, his fears vanished, and hearing nothing, he grew calmer. By the light of a torch borne at the stern of the hostile wherry, he saw that the pursuers had approached within a short distance of the object of their quest. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily.
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