At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. You’re a lady. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. By this time, Jack's reputation had risen to such a height with the populace,—his exploits having become the universal theme of discourse, that the streets were almost impassable for the crowds collected to obtain a view of him. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. He laughed lightly. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. Ramage pursed his rather loose lips and shrugged his shoulders, with his eyes fixed steadily upon her.
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