A true nun. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. "Now, give me the woollen cloth to tie round my fetters," whispered Sheppard.
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