" "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. A neat tale, giving little away. “Certainly her voice is far more musical. “For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. " "Follow me, then," cried Thames, drawing his sword, and springing through the window.
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