Her tone was icy. Perhaps she was. "Ah! Terry O'Flaherty!" he cried, shouting after the Irishman, who took to his heels as soon as he found his murderous attempt unsuccessful; "you may run, but you'll not get out of my reach. After venting his wrath in the wildest manner, and uttering the most dreadful execrations, Jonathan retired to another part of the prison, where he passed the night in consultation with the governor, as to the best means of conveying the prisoner securely to Tyburn. ” “Heavens!” the lady exclaimed. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin.
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