Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. “You killed them, didn’t you?” He said. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels.
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