Whether the turnkey entertained any suspicion of the old man, Jack could not tell, but that night he was more than usually rigorous in his search; and having carefully examined the prisoners and finding nothing to excite his suspicions, he departed tolerably satisfied. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. "You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. ” “That’s rather a pity,” Annabel said.
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