His revelry, however, was put an end at the expiration of the time mentioned by Jonathan, by the entrance of a posse of constables with Quilt Arnold and Abraham Mendez at their head. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. In all other respects they differed as materially. He will not help them—and I told Emile so—and thus he sends them to my other grandpére, even that he knows he is dead. She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. You’ll never even see me again, for that 268 matter.
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