I must tell somebody—and you would understand. The Procession to Tyburn. We can be married tomorrow in Paris. Also, you must send someone to fetch my horse—at least, it is not mine but I have borrowed it to come here—because it will be dark very soon and—’ ‘Woof! Hold it, hold it,’ begged the sergeant. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. Why, he can scarcely be twenty. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. Á bientot—Melusine.
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