"Take her," cried Jonathan; and, flinging the now inanimate body of the poor widow, who had fainted in the struggle, into the arms of Thames, he leapt through the window, and by the time the latter could consign her to Wood, and dart after him, he had disappeared. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. When he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened. It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. “But you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired.
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