‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. " "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. You’ll end up dead, that’s what. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. ” “Right!” he answered. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt.
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