Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. The inn was a military haunt. "I am—I am!" cried the widow, snatching the babe, and pressing it to her breast with rapturous delight "God be thanked, I have found it!" "We have both good reason to be grateful," added the lady, with great emotion. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. ” He said.
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