” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. The young man had knocked over the siphon. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her. "Come to buy off Jack Sheppard, I suppose," replied the fellow. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit. "Safe!" shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing. "O Massa Ireton! Massa Wild!" ejaculated Caliban, "Shack Sheppart gone!" "Gone? you black devil!—Gone?" cried Ireton.
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