"Oh! that I could live to see it," gasped Jonathan. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. The young lady with frizzled hair, whom Brendon had pointed out to her as Miss Ellicot, leaned forward from her hostess’s side. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful.
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