With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. He could not doubt it. On an empty cask, which served him for a chair, and opposite Jack Sheppard, whose rapid progress in depravity afforded him the highest satisfaction, sat Blueskin, encouraging the two women in their odious task, and plying his victim with the glass as often as he deemed it expedient to do so. ‘Point it at me. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. I thought Bess would have cried her pretty eyes out when she heard you was nabbed. It’s one of our conventional superstitions.
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