There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. Nothing material occurred to Newgate, until the memorable year 1666, when it was utterly destroyed by the Great Fire. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. Though he walked by the side of the governor, he seldom exchanged a word with him, but appeared wholly absorbed in the contemplations inspired by a broadbowled Dutch pipe.
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