" So saying, he advanced towards the window, threw open the sash, and called out in the voice of Thames Darrell, "Who's there?" He was answered by a shot from a pistol. And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. Set the boy free.
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