And, now, to find a messenger. There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Ireton will do no such thing," replied the head-turnkey. Hearing the noise of the scuffle, the tapstress, fancying it was Jack making an effort to escape, in spite of the remonstrances of the executioner, threw open the wicket. They ought to put a lamp. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him.
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