But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying. But Ruth was his woman, and he had sworn to God to defend her. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours.
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