He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. "You mustn't talk any more; the excitement isn't good for you. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. Wood, then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring on board the chase. That’s— that’s my private life.
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