" "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. ’ Melusine drowned in his kiss. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident. That he had resolved upon its execution, whatever it might be, was evident from his saying aloud,— "I will do it.
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