mmered through a chink in the secret door, which Tomlinson
had now unbarred and was about to open.

"Listen to me, Mr. Nabbem," said he, "and perhaps I may grant what you
require! What would you do with me if you had me?"

"You speaks like a sensible man now," answered Nabbem; "and that's after
my own heart. Why, you sees, Captain, your time is come, and you can't
shilly-shally any longer. You have had your full swing; your years are
up, and you must die like a man! But I gives you my honour as a gemman,
that if you surrenders, I'll take you to the justice folks as tenderly
as if you were made of cotton."

"Give way one moment," said Clifford, "that I may plant the steps firmer
for you."

Nabbem retreated to the ground; and Clifford, who had, good-naturedly
enough, been unwilling unnecessarily to damage so valuable a
functionary, lost not the opportunity now afforded him. Down thundered
the steps, clattering heavily among the other officers, and falling like
an avalanche on the shoulder of one of the arresters of Long Ned.

Meanwhile Clifford sprang after Tomlinson through the aperture, and
found himself--in the presence of four officers, conducted by the shrewd
MacGrawler. A blow from a bludgeon on the right cheek and temple of
Augustus felled that hero. But Clifford bounded over his comrade's
body, dodged from the stroke aimed at himself, caught the blow aimed
by another assailant in his open hand, wrested the bludgeon from the
officer, struck him to the ground with his own weapon, and darting
onward through the labyrinth of the wood, commenced his escape with a
step too fleet to allow the hope of a successful pursuit.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"In short, Isabella, I offer you myself!"
"Heavens!" cried Isabella, "what do I hear? You, my lord?"
Castle of Otranto.

A novel is like a weatherglass,--where the man appears out at one time,
the woman at another. Variable as the atmosphere, the changes of our
story now re-present Lucy to the reader.

That charming young person--who, it may be remarked, is (her father
excepted) the only unsophisticated and unsullied character in the pages
of a story in some measure designed to show, in the depravities of
character, the depravities of that social state wherein characters are
formed--was sitting alone in her apartment at the period in which we
return to her. As time, and that innate and insensible fund of he