Jonathan gave utterance to a low whistle. There was only one prisoner in the ward. Master, your humble servant. She frowned, appearing to think for a moment. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. Melusine approached with caution and sat warily at one end, looking up at him expectantly. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate.
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