‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. The doors were closed and barricaded, and the mob threatened to burst them open if Jack was not delivered to them. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin.
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