" "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. "Wretch!" cried Jack. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. This service rendered, without waiting for any farther order, she withdrew. She looked at him curiously. . Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. Returning to the audience-chamber, Blueskin had the Jew brought before him.
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