" "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. Success to our enterprise!" "Success to our enterprise!" echoed the others, significantly. She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. I thought that he was dead. Melusine shrugged. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. " "To-morrow will be too late," said Sheppard, moodily. .
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