“Only you are the woman I love, and you are in trouble. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice. Come, mon ami, come!’ Ever faithful, Kimble dragged himself into a sitting position, gasping at the pain this caused him. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them.
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