Some years ago, in 1715, just before the Rebellion, I was rash enough to league myself with the Jacobite party, and by Wild's machinations got clapped into Newgate, whence I was glad to escape with my head upon my shoulders. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. "Well, Jack," he said, after a pause, "are you disposed to go back quietly with me?" "You'll ascertain that when you attempt to touch me," rejoined Sheppard, resolutely. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword.
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