" "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 will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut. But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance.
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