"Cease your confounded clutter!" said a young man, whose swarthy visage, seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. The danger or difficulty of an exploit never appalled him. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. An ancient smile lay on his lips. She put back her hood in a determined way. He had only to recall this fact (which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go around or over.
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