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"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. He then scaled the northern tower, and made his way to the summit of that part of the prison which fronted Giltspur Street. Darrell stopped, and drew his sword. Horrible!" "Poor soul! her senses are going again," said Mr. 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. CHAPTER I.
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