His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. ‘But I have been perfectly honest about that. I shall quit it and go abroad. My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. I must not let you go again. Listen to your mother's prayers, and do not let her die brokenhearted. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss.
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