And with a hideous expression of pain, he fainted. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. "Do you still refuse to make one!" "I have made one," replied Lady Trafford. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. His attention drawn, the captain was easily able to make out the pretty features under the feathered hat, and the same dark riding habit the fugitive had worn on that first occasion at Remenham House. "What have you seen?" inquired Lady Trafford.
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