“He fell over at my feet,” she continued. While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. "Poor fellow! I'm glad he has escaped. There it is—against you. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. I will have nothing to do with you.
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