Wood resounded from below. "Fly, Captain, fly!" vociferated Blueskin; "I shan't be able to keep these devils down. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He swore when I tried to get it out with the ladle, and told me what it said. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features. You see, aunt, it’s the only possible way for me to get a good degree in my subjects, and father won’t hear of it. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had.
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