“I’ve had most of the things I wanted,” said Ramage, in the stillness of the night. For on reaching the second floor, a swishing sound came to Gerald’s ears, as of someone moving about. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled "Rosa Solis. She felt terrible lying to him. That was an admission all right. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves.
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