'We have been fighting,' said the admiral, 'and I am the conqueror. If you are disposed to part with the pretty housekeeper, I will carry her off _en croupe_ on my horse.' Drownlands disdained an answer. 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'now that you are here, let me ask a favour of you. Pray put your hands to this paper and witness my signature to this my last will and testament.' 'I hope you have put the Queen of Cheap Jacks down for something handsome. If you have done that, we will sign cheerfully.' 'Not for a penny,' answered Drownlands. 'Everything I have goes to my niece. Here is ink and here a pen. Gentlemen, this is my true act and deed.' 'My hand shakes,' said Christian; 'I have been laughing, and cannot hold a pen.' 'And mine is jarred,' said Wilkins, 'with the thundering blows of that swashbuckler, Abbott.' Jesting, laughing, the three men complied with the request of Drownlands, hardly regarding what they were about. 'I say, Abbott,' said Wilkins, 'what was that promise that fell from ruby lips relative to an epergne?' 'We were to raffle for one,' said the admiral. 'Can't do it,' said Christian. 'We have not got the others here. We'll hoist Bates on to a horse and make him come another day, when this confounded business of the riots is over.' 'You have got the favour, Abbott,' said Wilkins, 'but not by fair swordsmanship. Whether you carry it to Ely is another matter. Christian, shall he hoist it at the end of his toasting-fork and ride? We'll give him a hundred yards, and then pursue, and he who overtakes, captures the favour and carries it into the city.' 'Done—we'll race the admiral for it.' Then, turning to Zita, 'We'll come another day and raffle for the epergne at a guinea a-piece. The pool goes to you. Now then, brother justices, away we go!' CHAPTER XXXV THE JACK O' LANTERNS 'Take it, and keep it,' said Drownlands, handing the will to Zita. 'You can read. It is as you desired, and on the same condition as before. That is as you promised.' 'Yes,' said the girl; 'with that I am content.' She put the will in her bosom. 'Then,' said Drownlands in a tone of sad bitterness, 'for life and till death we are united.' 'After a fashion, to keep apart.' 'Yes, united to be separate.' 'Like a pair of wheels,' said Zita. 'They keep the concern going, but have it always between them.' The day had closed in, and Zita retired to her room to sit at the window and look out at the dead uniformity of the fen, and the white line of horizon between it and the darkness above, like a white fringe to a pall. She desired solitude, that she might review what was past. The weather was cold. There had been frost, hard and biting, and the ice clad the water. The snow that had been spread over the land had in part disappeared, licked up by the dry wind that scaled the waters, and the land from whiteness had turned to blackness.