Swinging her arm in an arc, she let go of the foil and it flew across the chapel towards the main door, crashing down between the pews, and clattering onto the floor. I knew it was in vain to cry 'murder!' in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem. An hour later the doctor arrived; and after a thorough examination, he looked doubtful. The above description of —the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains Sole monarch acknowledged of Mary'bone plains— may sound somewhat tame by the side of the glowing account given of him by his gallant biographer, who asserts that "there was a majesty shone in his countenance, and blazed in his actions, beyond all I ever saw;" but it may, possibly, convey a more accurate notion of his personal appearance. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave.
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