That wasn’t even the worst thing. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. ” And she pressed her lips together in white resolution and nodded, and she was manifestly full of that same passion for conflict and selfsacrifice that has given the world martyrs since the beginning of things. But his lips were honourlocked. “I think,” he said, “that I would fetch any one whom he has asked to see. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder. He waited the pleasure of Monsieur.
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