"Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. " "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. “I will go,” he said. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. You should remember, before you try your strength against mine, that when I rescued you from the watch, and you induced me to come and live with you, I beat off four men, any of whom was a match for you—ha! ha!" "My dear Poll!" said Kneebone, picking himself up, "I entreat you to moderate yourself. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Now you can understand why I have been obliged to——” “Yes, yes, I understand that,” Courtlaw interrupted. "Have you got Jonathan out of the way?" he asked, in an eager whisper. "You are angry?" "Very. " "What should I tempt you to?" asked Blueskin, in surprise.
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