"Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. “Hey, John. For whom had its sharp point been intended? Valade? Or perhaps his wife now that the girl had word of their marriage. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful.
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