"No prize shall indushe me to enter dat horrid plashe again. Just speak the word," he added, drawing the knife significantly across his throat, "and I'll put it out of his power to do the same by your second. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Michelle had begged her to do it. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured.
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