Whatever those rights may be, whoever I am, my heart is yours. I’ve more than twice your strength and at least ten times your cunning, when it’s needed. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. His revelry, however, was put an end at the expiration of the time mentioned by Jonathan, by the entrance of a posse of constables with Quilt Arnold and Abraham Mendez at their head. "Spare me!" Jonathan, however, instead of answering him, searched for his knife, with the intention of severing his wrist. "Take care of yourself, then," rejoined Thames, doubling his fists, and advancing towards him: "though my right arm's stiff, I can use it, as you'll find.
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