"'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. You belong to me, and I have waited long enough. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. This spot, which still retains its name, acquired the appellation from an old crone who lived there, and who, in addition to a very equivocal character for honesty, enjoyed the reputation of being a witch.
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