And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. Also, you must send someone to fetch my horse—at least, it is not mine but I have borrowed it to come here—because it will be dark very soon and—’ ‘Woof! Hold it, hold it,’ begged the sergeant. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke.
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