“Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. Young and old were dressed in their gayest apparel; and it was evident from the smiles that lighted up every countenance, from the roguish looks of the younger swains, and the demure expression of several pretty rustic maidens, that a ceremony, which never fails to interest all classes,—a wedding,—was about to take place. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you.
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