"My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. But his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom.
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