“John, don’t!” she cried. " "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. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. Not fit to be dust on your boots. Arrived at the secret door, she grasped the lever that opened it and placed the lantern on the floor.
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