"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. There is no need of your friend to kill you, imbecile, because I shall do so this minute. The knight, who could ill brook this familiarity, instantly arose.
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