She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. He had found Spurlock. Shouting to his companion, even as they passed by where I hid myself, he called out that he thought to find you at the convent. “No. Voilà tout. Nothing is settled upon. We felt like thieves. "Hell-hounds!" he cried; "release me!" At the same moment, Quilt Arnold rushed forward with such haste, that, stumbling over William Morgan, he precipitated him into the grave.
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