Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. "Your son," answered the boy. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. " "I am not unprotected," rejoined the poor woman; "there's some one at the window. Courtlaw opened his lips, but remained silent in the face of her imperative gesture.
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