That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. "The poor young man!" sighed Angelina. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. He then scaled the northern tower, and made his way to the summit of that part of the prison which fronted Giltspur Street. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket.
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