She finished the olive and looked up. "He has escaped!" exclaimed the knight; "we have searched every corner of the house without finding a trace of him. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking.
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