" "You'd better take care of your mother's son instead," rejoined Blueskin. Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. . " "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. And thus he was once more free, having effected one of the most wonderful escapes ever planned or accomplished.
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