In the pause a door could be heard opening and closing on the landing up-stairs. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. “I do not wish to use this. And so, the invasion really is to take place after all; and the Chevalier de Saint George is to land at the Tower with fifty thousand Frenchmen; and the Hanoverian usurper's to be beheaded; and Doctor Sacheverel's to be made a bishop, and we're all to be—eh?" "All in good time," returned Kneebone, putting his finger to his lips; "don't let your imagination run away with you, my charmer. I won't dig their graves with my nails. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it.
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