" "Holloa! my hearty!" cried Ben, starting to his feet. He was caked with dried muck. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. . . ‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out. ’ He glanced at the portrait behind her. Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs.
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