"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Jonathan's vexation at the disappointment was expressed in the bitterest imprecations, and he returned as speedily as he could to the trench. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark.
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