While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. I HAD to. "Ah!" exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet. It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood. Pain sliced into Gerald’s hand and his sword arm jerked. She was consumed by misery and hate. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. Take my word for it, your troubles are over.
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