" The man of keys again looks very wise, runs his hand deep
into the pocket of his coat, and says something about this being a
great country.
"How much do you reckon her worth, my friend?" enquires M'Carstrow,
exchanging a significant glance.
"Well, now you've got me. It's a point of judgment, you see. The
article's rather questionable-been spoiled. There's a doubt about
such property when you put it up, except a gentleman wants it; and
then, I reckon, it'll bring a smart price. There's this to be
considered, I reckon, though they haven't set a price on her yet,
she's excellent good looking; and the young un's a perfect cherry.
It'll bring a big heap one of these days."
"We won't mind that, just now, gaoler," M'Carstrow says, very
complacently; "you'll let me have her tonight, and I'll return her
safe in the morning."
"No, no," interposes Clotilda, mistaking M'Carstrow's object. She
crouches down on the blanket, as if shrinking from a deadly assault:
"let me remain, even in my cell." She draws the children to her
side.
"Don't mistake me, my girl: I am a friend. I want you for Franconia
Rovero. She is fond of you, you know."
"Franconia!" she exclaims with joy, starting to her feet at the
sound of the name. "I do know her, dear Franconia! I know her, I
love her, she loves me-I wish she was my mother. But she is to be
the angel of my freedom-" Here she suddenly stopped, as if she had
betrayed something.
"We must lose no time," M'Carstrow says, informing her that
Franconia is that night to be his bride, and cannot be happy without
seeing her.
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