"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. Yet before she turned once more to resume her flight she schooled herself with an effort to look where it had happened. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. .
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