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Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. Spurlock halted in his tracks. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. Sheppard, passionately,—"he has my boundless gratitude, and devotion. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. "Take care of your charge. "I'll need a job when I quit this bed. “Stop it!. There was a shrill cry, instantly succeeded by a deep splash.
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