" "Who's lost?" demanded Ireton. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. Her husband quickly joined the fray, making her giggle and laugh. " "De gentleman may rely on my showing his relation all de attention in my power," replied Van Galgebrok, bowing profoundly to the knight; "but if any unforseen accident—such as a slip overboard—should befal de jonker on de voyage, he mushn't lay de fault entirely on my shoulders—haw! haw!" "Where is he?" asked Sir Rowland, glancing uneasily around. She still could not muster the strength to leave. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones. She did not resist him, she could not.
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