Holding the lamp over her rigid but beautiful features, Jonathan, with some anxiety, placed his hand upon her breast to ascertain whether the heart still beat. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. On the envelope was written— Sydney Courtlaw, Esq. It is of no use.
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