"Flight is still left me," replied Trenchard. “You know—,” said Mr. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Wood. Giles's round-house on my own responsibility. “They might do you good,” she remarked. She pointed across the road. Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations,—for he was completely out of breath,— the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the carpenter, and, regardless of the consternation he excited in the breast of that personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment, he began to divest himself of a heavy horseman's cloak, which he threw over Wood's shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen intently for the approach of his pursuers. Now tell them why. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. You may have to carry them further and longer than you think. ‘I can answer that. .
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