They stopped talking, except to each other. "Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr. " Darrell returned no answer. " "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. Kneebone, what with flirting with Mrs. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause.
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