A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. Then he put the paper by. She chuckled. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living. "Farewell!" cried Jack, breaking from them, and rushing down the street. " "Figg's an old friend of mine," rejoined Jack; "he was my instructor in the small sword and back sword exercise. Don't lay it all to the boy. It is at the lodge that we stay. My poor Hoddy! I had to talk harshly, or break down and have hysterics. He hasn't found himself, as they say. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. Adieu! my charmer.
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