" "You do not remember me, I dare say," observed the stranger. ’ There was a kind of aching hunger in Gerald’s gaze. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. 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. Smith, "upon my conscience. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. Be silent, I say, if you value his safety.
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