"Set your prisoner free!" returned Wood. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. Could she go through with it? She must. I'm always shy the price of the ticket home. Shortly to be executed. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about.
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