It was a different world. Acquainted with every part of the jail, Jack well knew that his only chance of effecting an escape must be by the roof. As soon as they had got out, the vehicle was drawn up at the back of a tree near the cage. He drew her to him and tipped her chin towards him. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest.
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