It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. " "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. "Bess wouldn't bear a rival. " "That is to say, you wish you had let me die?" "That was the thought. From me. I get your side all right.
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