"I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. You are very lovely, Ruth. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. You can have no shecrets from me.
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