"This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Home!— which I never hoped to see again. Where is Sir Rowland?" "In the library, your ladyship. Opposite the gallows was an open gallery, or scaffolding, like the stand at a racecourse, which, on state occasions, was crowded with spectators. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband? His luck was in.
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