She went to her own table and sat down. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. “Let us sit down for a moment,” he had said. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. She heard him crash against it, and turned the key in the lock. "Upon him!" "Yield, villain, or die!" shouted Thames, drawing his sword and springing towards him. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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