At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood altered the position of the bundle. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. "Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. “But your sister,” he said.
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