Shotbolt?" rejoined the executioner. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. At sunset the swarming abruptly ceased; even the sampans appeared to draw closer together, with the quiet of water-fowl. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination.
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