"I am an officer in the execution of my duty. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. Walpole for your apprehension. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. " "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. .
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