"Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. “I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. She formed a wild resolution, and, lest she should waver from it, she set about at once to realize it. ‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and— and I know only.
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