The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. " "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. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words.
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