The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. ‘Now what?’ The guard jerked his head up the corridor. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon.
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