An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. ‘Jacques!’ She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. ” “Out with it, then,” he cried, almost roughly. Passing at a glance over the whole of the intervening period; leaving in the words of the poet, —The growth untried Of that wide gap— we shall resume our narrative at the beginning of June, 1715.
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