He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. "Or the street," returned Jack: "mind my words, the prison's not built that can keep me. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. "Hist!" cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. "By Heaven!" cried Darrell, "it is the poor fellow whom I placed in such jeopardy a short time ago.
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