The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. Aroused by the sound of the church bells, he resolved, at whatever risk, to attend Divine service. I don’t care. I left him in charge of Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok—the skipper I spoke of— with strict orders to shoot him if he made any further attempt at escape; and they're not lads—the latter especially—to be trifled with. .
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