While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. "Stop a minute," cried Jack, detaining his mistresses. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. “Thank you, Martin,” she replied graciously. "No matter," replied Sheppard. He had almost forced himself upon her one night after a particularly bloody raid of a thatched cottage. In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. Wood. Wood caught hold of Jack's leg, and dragged him off the bench.
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