"Quilt Arnold, is that you?" "It is, Sir," sputtered the janizary. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. Throwing the blanket over his left arm and shouldering the iron bar, he again clambered up the chimney; regained the Red Room; hurried along the first passage; crossed the Chapel; threaded the entry to the Lower Leads; and, in less than ten minutes after quitting the Castle, had reached the northern extremity of the prison. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. " "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. But it was of no avail. Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts.
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