Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. Within that dungeon lay Captain Bew, Rumbold and Whitney—a jolly crew! All carved their names on the stone, and all Share the fate of the brave Du Val! With their chisels so fine, tra la! "Save us!" continued the apprentice, "I hope this beam doesn't resemble the Newgate stone; or I may chance, like the great men the song speaks of, to swing on the Tyburn tree for my pains. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. Still, one never could tell.
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