Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout. She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon.
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