Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his way, in spite of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to the cart, and offered his large horny hand to the prisoner. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. Every one turned to her in astonishment. "Heed her not. You'll find those young ladies extremely agreeable acquaintances. Now lend me your own hand. My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser. She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. .
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