The third item she took with a trembling hand by its waistbelt. Tell him the truth, Annabel. " "A fugitive. ” “May I ask,” Anna said softly, “what you presume to have been the nature of my errand here this evening?” Sir John pointed to Annabel, who was as yet utterly limp. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink.
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