"No—Sheppard?" rejoined Wild. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. Notwithstanding the heat of the season,—which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this subterranean region,—a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever flame shone upon. ’ Tears sprang to Melusine’s own eyes, and she clasped the hand she held more tightly.
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