They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. Spurling, hastening to the rescue. "You are my prisoner, Jack.
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