There were the burnt papers still in the grate. He was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, "The bridge!—the bridge!" CHAPTER VII. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features.
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