Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose. "I am your most unhappy son. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. How long he continued thus he scarcely knew; but just before dawn, he managed to regain his legs, and, crawling up a bank, perceived he was within a quarter of a mile of Tottenham. "The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. "Can you make me other than a condemned felon? Can you make me not Jack Sheppard?" "No," replied Blueskin; "and I wouldn't if I could.
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