’ ‘What?’ gasped Alderley in shock. Even now she was dazed. Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants. Gerald looked at it, then at her face. " "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. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. Don't be afraid, man,—off with it.
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