"You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. Burn your palette and your easel. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. " "Why how's this?" exclaimed Jonathan. Striking out his foot, he knocked half a dozen teeth down the janizary's throat; and, seconding the kick with a blow on the head from the butt-end of the pistol, stretched him, senseless and bleeding on the ground. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep.
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