“I think we are growing sensible,” he said. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him. Understanding the appeal, the man snatched his master's sword from his grasp, and passed it through Darrell's body. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. He had scarcely completed his toilet, when he was startled by a noise at the door, and heard his own name pronounced in no friendly accents. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales.
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