The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. A question next arose whether the prisoner could be executed under the existing warrant,—some inclining to one opinion, some to another. Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack's head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer's arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground. “But your hair,” he gasped.
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