Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. A struggle of the most terrific kind now ensued. “The women are taking it up,” said Miss Miniver; “the women and the common people, all pressing forward, all roused. As to this little fellow, in spite of the Dutchman, who, in my opinion, is more of a Jacobite than a conjurer, and more of a knave than either, he shall never mount a horse foaled by an acorn, if I can help it.
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