It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest. ” Her mind went back to that treaty.
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