The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. Hearing the spring touched, he dashed through on the instant, and struck down the person who presented himself, with his bludgeon. "Go!" said Lady Trafford; "it is my last request. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. With a cry of distress, she dropped the pistol and flew after him, racing past him to the door.
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