She worried for her father in Mantua, 28 hoping that he was still alive. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves.
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