White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses. " "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. He stole his chance and thrust his hand towards hers.
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