But his own situation was too perilous to admit of his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. He has no imagination, no real generosity. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. “I don’t know how to prove myself to you, John. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. ” Ennison had things to say, but he looked at her and held his tongue. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished.
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