The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. He stopped us, and, addressing Jack in a taunting tone, said, 'Well, I've been as good as my word!'—'True,' replied Sheppard; 'and I'll be as good as mine!' And so they parted. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. Arrived at Paddington, he struck across Marylebone Fields,—for as yet the New Road was undreamed of,—and never moderated his speed until he reached the city. "It's like enough, I dare say," rejoined Sheppard. She felt she was now near her boy, and, nothing doubting her ability to rescue him from his perilous situation, she breathed a fervent prayer for his deliverance; and bending her steps towards the tavern in question, revolved within her mind as she walked along the best means of accomplishing her purpose. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. I hid because there was no other way of seeing you. She fled. This formidable person, who was no other than the renowned Figg, the "Atlas of the sword," as he is termed by Captain Godfrey, had removed his hat and "skull covering," and was wiping the heat from his bepatched and closeshaven pate. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers.
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