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On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank. The next moment his grasp relaxed, and he sank to rise no more. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable.
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