Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. " "Traitor!" cried Sir Rowland—"damned—double-dyed traitor!" "Away with him," vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could utter another word,—"first to Mr. Death belongs to God, young man. Then he stepped briskly to his feet and bent over the wounded man. I should be sorry if Shotbolt got the reward. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance.
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