" "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. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty. The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw. “I have not the least idea who he is. I want him immediately, so you can send Frith with my phaeton if you like.
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