"Well, what sort of journey have you had, Quilt?" asked the man as he hastened to assist Sir Rowland to dismount. 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. "But, I own, I think it is like. There was also a Maze, (the name is still retained in the district,) into which the debtor could run, and through the intricacies of which it was impossible for an officer to follow him, without a clue. "Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. In all other respects they differed as materially. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. She thought of all sorts of odd and desperate expedients, and with passionate petulance rejected them all. "Most persons would have guessed my meaning.
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