Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. He was placed in a coach, handcuffed, and heavily fettered, and guarded by a vast posse of officers to Temple Bar, where a fresh relay of constables escorted him to Westminster. “You are a miracle! God spares few from the Pestilence. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. In the circles into which he had been born, the passing on of land was of vital importance.
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