It was his tall stance and his pale skin that drew him out of the crowd. They were bathing in the stream. "We're forgetting," he said. "Defend yourself!" cried Jack, drawing his sword. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate. It was just such a bedroom as she would have chosen for herself. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. "It is past," said Jack, placing his finger on the trigger. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. But death is better for them, since they’re orphans now!” He screamed. While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts.
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