"Why do you ask?" rejoined the other haughtily. I hate children. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. The wall of the sky, the wall of the horizon, the wall behind which each human being hid—the wall behind which she herself was hiding! If only her mother had lived, her darling mother! Presently the unhappy puzzlement left her face; and an inward glow began to lighten it. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate. "By desire of his Majesty," said the jailer, consequentially. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. ‘Of course. ‘You damned little fool! How dared you steal my sword?’ Her eyes flew open. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me.
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