You must forgive the poet’s license I take. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. The latter seemed inclined to advance and address the former; but suddenly changing his mind, he shouted to his companion in tones familiar to the stranger's ear; and, striking spurs into his steed, dashed off at full speed along the Edgeware Road. Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue. . ’ He let her go. He went on with intense urgency. She remained for a few moments standing as though listening to his retreating footsteps. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue.
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