She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack's head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer's arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground. ‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move. She tried to be casual. In the middle there was a gate. So do please believe that in this matter I am acting for the best.
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