" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. Instantly seizing it, the young man placed it in the carriage, shut the door, and commanded his servants to drive off. It was only a matter of time. And this clear-visioned child had comprehended that only half the rogues were really ill.
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