Once over the iron spikes, Bess exhibited no reluctance to be let down on the other side of the wall. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. When any violent outrage was committed,—and such matters were of daily, sometimes hourly, occurrence,—a bell, the rope of which descended into the hall, brought the whole of the turnkeys to their assistance. We’ll leave him here, with a couple of others. That’s the wonder of it.
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