"Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately. "It's the skull of a rebel," said Jonathan, with marked emphasis on the word, "blown by the wind from a spike on the bridge above us. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. But Bess could scarcely summon resolution enough to hazard the experiment; and it was only on Jack's urgent intreaties, and even threats, that she could be prevailed on to trust herself to the frail tenure of the rope he had prepared. I will be very well without him.
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