" "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. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. A slight rain fell at the time; and a few leaves, caught by the eddies, whirled around. "I never told anybody," she went on. He no longer made love to her, as there was no point. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming.
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