"Aha! my lad!" he cried without appearing to regard the pain of the wound; "now I'll show you no quarter. I want to do something. " "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.
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