There was a stain of wine upon her dress. Before her was a great Gothic portal. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. He had not had time to aim the pistol. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. Women and men had always flocked to him, covetous of his knowledge, his riches, and if all else failed, his carnal expertise.
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