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He had now reached what was called the Lower Leads,—a flat, covering a part of the prison contiguous to the gateway, and surrounded on all sides by walls about fourteen feet high. Reconnoitring them through a small grated loophole, he refused to open the door till they had explained their business. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. It was an uproarious affair, for Rollo now knew that he had been grieviously betrayed: they were trying to kill him in a new way. Hear me then, now, before I take one step to establish my origin, or secure my rights.
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