A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured. She came to adore them. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. Some one was standing beside him. Spurling, "I hope he may never see Tyburn. Wood's famous 'prentice?" "What apprentice?" asked the stranger, in surprise. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He saw himself retreating from barricade to barricade, Ruth always advancing, perfectly oblivious of the terror she inspired. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. "Oh! he'll be after you directly.
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