The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. ‘Come, I am concerned merely for your safety, you know. ‘For instance, why have you reverted to your nun’s habit for this particular adventure?’ ‘That is easy. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. Overcome by his affliction, Mr. It's a thousand pities to hang so pretty a fellow. " So saying, he rushed out, followed by Ireton and Langley. ” “The Bubonic Plague?” He asked. The path he had selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling. " CHAPTER XV.
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