Kneebone will excuse you. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. “Who is the tenant of these rooms?” he inquired. " "Rely on me," rejoined Kneebone. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying.
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