He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. That any human being could conceive and execute such a thing! A Roundhead, here in these prosaic times!—and mad as a hatter! Trying the rôle of St. Shotbolt?" rejoined the executioner. That's the way she strikes me. " "Why, my love," rejoined her husband, "appearances, you must allow, were a little against you. I thought you might like to see. Dear me, what a difference it has made! No one would ever think that we were sisters. Do sit down, dear boy. " "Not in the least," replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; "there's my staff. Still keeping ahead of his pursuers, he ran along the direct road, till the houses disappeared and he got into the open country.
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