In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. All the precious paintings and statues of the divine family were here, as was the enormous wooden crucifix set above the altar. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. “See you at school tomorrow.
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