She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Neither combatant could use his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. But one thing troubled him, and because of it he might never arrive on the beach. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. "And now to see the end of it," said Jonathan, shortly afterwards passing through the window. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. .
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