But this was but a momentary gleam of personal application, and at this time she followed it up no further. "We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. " "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 his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. She remembered the doctor's warning that the real battle would begin when the patient recovered consciousness. . . That there would eventually be a lover Ruth knew; and she waited his appearance upon the scene, waited with an impatience which was both personal and literary.
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