You get the idea. Shotbolt?" rejoined the executioner. " "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. They had not so far been of much personal interest to Gerald, but tonight was different. Engines were brought to play upon Wild's premises, and upon the adjoining houses. But let the horses be in readiness.
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