” He took a seat by her side. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. On that first occasion, the delay in locating the entrance to the secret passage meant that she had to wait until morning to make her search. The militia offered little in the way of relief. Rattles were sprung; lanterns lighted, and hoisted at the end of poles; windows thrown open; doors unbarred; and, as if by magic, the street was instantaneously filled with a crowd of persons of both sexes, armed with such weapons as came most readily to hand, and dressed in such garments as could be most easily slipped on. Winifred pointed to the door. But she had loved the man.
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