"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. " "We'll see that, young hempseed," replied Sharples, shutting the hatch furiously in his face, and locking it. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. He has hanged twelve of his associates already.
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