In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the roof wide enough to allow him to pass through. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight. Prudence was the substance and Angelina the shadow; for Angelina never offered opinions, she only agreed with those advanced by Prudence. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. She despises me, I suppose. Come, make yourself scarce.
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