"Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. ” “But how? It has only been a few days!” “She’s not even here. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. Before many minutes elapsed, he had picked a large hole in the plaster, which showered down in a cloud of dust; and breaking off several laths, caught hold of a beam, by which he held with one hand, until with the other he succeeded, not without some difficulty, in forcing out one of the tiles. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice.
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