She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. "Heaven has decreed it otherwise," replied the knight, dejectedly. " "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. .
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