" "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. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. Spurling and Marvel rose too. This accident rather confirms than checks my purpose.
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