JACK SHEPPARD Volume III. (of III.) A Romance By W. Harrison Ainsworth 1839 _“Upon my word, friend,” said I, “you have almost made me long to try what a robber I should make.” “There is a great art in it, if you did,” quoth he. “Ah! but,” said I, “there's a great deal in being hanged.”_ _Life and Actions of Guzman d'Alfarache._ [Illustration: 009] [Illustration: titlepage] ILLUSTRATIONS: The Portrait ... to face the Title. Jonathan Wild throwing Sir Rowland Trenchard down the Well Jack Sheppard tricking Shotbolt the Gaoler The Escape, No. I. The Escape, No. II The Escape, No. III Jonathan Wild seizing Jack Sheppard at his Mother's Grave Jack Sheppard's Irons knocked off in Newgate The Procession from Newgate to Tyburn The Last Scene CHAPTER XI. DOLLIS HILL REVISITED. About an hour after the occurrences at Newgate, the door of the small back-parlour already described at Dollis Hill was opened by Winifred, who, gliding noiselessly across the room, approached a couch, on which was extended a sleeping female, and, gazing anxiously at her pale careworn countenance, murmured,--“Heaven be praised! she still slumbers--slumbers peacefully. The opiate has done its duty. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!” Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,--deathlike and deep. Its very calmness was frightful. Her lips were apart, but no breath seemed to issue from them; and, but for a slight--very slight palpitation of the bosom, the vital principle might be supposed to be extinct. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features--especially the nose and chin,--and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. Her attenuated arms were crossed upon her breast; and her black brows and eyelashes contrasted fearfully with the livid whiteness of her skin. A few short, dark locks, escaping from beneath her head-dress, showed that her hair had been removed, and had only been recently allowed to grow again. “Poor Mrs. Sheppard!” sighed Winifred, as she contemplated the beautiful wreck before her,--“Poor Mrs. Sheppard! when I see her thus, and think of all she has endured, of all she may yet have to endure, I could almost pray for her release from trouble. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,--if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,--may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. What a mercy that the blow aimed at her by the ruffian, Wild, though it brought her to the brink of the grave, should have restored her to reason! Ah! she stirs.” As she said this, she drew a little aside, while Mrs. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. “Where am I?” she cried, passing her hand across her brow. “With your friends, dear Mrs. Sheppard,” replied Winifred, advancing.