There he sat as before, with the heavy fetters on his limbs, and beside him sat his three companions, who had since expiated their offences on the gibbet. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude.
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