The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. The above description of —the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains— may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that "there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;" but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. "Not dangerously, I hope," returned Thames; "but fly—save yourself. ‘Very well, Kimble. ’ He frowned again. But the sheer immensity of the tract! James Boyle was certainly up against it, hard. They must have a key.
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