His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. Emerging from this aperture, he was about to descend, when he was alarmed by hearing the tramp of horses' feet swiftly approaching, and had only time to hide himself behind one of the largest signboards before alluded to when two horsemen rode up. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. You must live for me.
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