"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. And experience was slow in coming. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. They were the same. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. Taking up a couple of large stones which lay near, Jack tried to beat the round basils of the fetters into an oval form, so as to enable him to slip his heels through them.
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