" "Readily. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. "Save me!—save me!" "Damnation!" vociferated Jonathan, savagely. Peste, but everything had become difficult. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. Hang the wench! Roding was right.
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