" "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. The Frenchman was already being followed. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. "No, no," rejoined Thames; "fly—or I will not answer for your safety.
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