" "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. He had not proceeded far when he encountered Sir Rowland, who, having missed his attendant, had returned to look after him. . A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful.
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