A robbery has been committed, and your master suspects this lad as an accessory to the offence. "Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. She had never felt so cold, she felt even colder than she had in the water.
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