“The Colonel!” and they hurried into the guardroom.
“Good evening, Colonel!” The porter bow’d low, holding the door wide.
I pass’d him rapidly, climb’d into the shadow of the coach, and drew a long breath.
Then ensued a hateful pause, as the great gates were unbarr’d. I gripp’d my knees for impatience.
The driver spoke a word to the porter, who came round to the coach door again.
“To Mistress Finch’s, is it not?”
“Ay,” I muttered; “and quickly.”
The coachman touched up his pair. The wheels mov’d; went quicker. We were outside the Castle.
With what relief I lean’d back as the Castle gates clos’d behind us! And with what impatience at our slow pace I sat upright again next minute! The wheels rumbled over the bridge, and immediately we were rolling easily down hill, through a street of some importance: but by this time the shutters were up along the shop fronts and very few people abroad. At the bottom we turn’d sharp to the left along a broader thoroughfare: and then suddenly drew up.
“Are we come?” I wonder’d. But no: ’twas the city gate, and here we had to wait for three minutes at least, till the sentries recogniz’d the Colonel’s coach and open’d the doors to us. They stood on this side and that, presenting arms, as we rattled through; and next moment I was crossing a broad bridge, with the dark Avon on either side of me, and the vessels thick thereon, their lanterns casting long lines of yellow on the jetty water, their masts and cordage looming up against the dull glare of the city.
Soon we were between lines of building once more, shops, private dwellings and warehouses intermix’d; then pass’d a tall church; and in about two minutes more drew up again. I look’d out.
Facing me was a narrow gateway leading to a house that stood somewhat back from the street, as if slipping away from between the lines of shops that wedg’d it in on either hand. Over the grill a link was burning. I stepp’d from the coach, open’d the gate, and crossing the small court, rang at the house bell.
At first there was no answer. I rang again: and now had the satisfaction to hear a light footfall coming. A bolt was pull’d and a girl appear’d holding a candle high in her hand. Quick as thought, I stepped past her into the passage.
“Delia!”
“Jack!”
“Hist! Close the door. Where is Mistress Finch?”
“Upstairs, expecting Colonel Essex. Oh, the happy day! Come—” she led me into a narrow back room and setting down the light regarded me—“Jack, my eyes are red for thee!”
“I see they are. Tomorrow I was to be hang’d.”
She put her hands together, catching her breath: and very lovely I thought her, in her straight grey gown and Puritan cap.
“They have been questioning me. Didst get my letter?”
The answer was on my lip when there came a sound that made us both start.
’Twas the dull echo of a gun firing, up at the Castle.
“Delia, what lies at the back here?”
“A garden and a garden door: after these a lane leading to Redcliff Street.”
“I must go, this moment.”
“And I?”
She did not wait my answer, but running out into the passage, she came swiftly back with a heavy key. I open’d the window.
“Delia! De‑lia!” ’Twas a woman’s voice calling her, at the head of the stairs.
“Aye, Mistress Finch.”
“Who was that at the door?”
I sprang into the garden and held forth a hand to Delia. “In one moment, mistress!” call’d she, and in one moment was hurrying with me across the dark garden beds. As she fitted the key to the garden gate, I heard the voice again.
“De‑lia!”
’Twas drown’d in a—wild rat-a-tat! on the street door, and the shouts of many voices. We were close press’d.
“Now, Jack—to the right for our lives! Ah, these clumsy skirts!”
We turn’d into the lane and rac’d down it. For my part, I swore to drown myself in Avon rather than let those troopers retake me. I heard their outcries about the house behind us, as we stumbled over the frozen rubbish heaps with which the lane was bestrewn.
“What’s our direction?” panted I, catching Delia’s hand to help her along.
“To the left now—for the river.”
We struck into a narrow side street; and with that heard a watchman bawl—
“Past nine o’ the night, an’ a—!”
The shock of our collision sent him to finish his say in the gutter.
“Thieves!” he yell’d.
But already we were twenty yards away, and now in a broader street, whereof one side was wholly lin’d with warehouses. And here, to our dismay, we heard shouts behind, and the noise of feet running.
About halfway down the street I spied a gateway standing ajar, and pull’d Delia aside, into a courtyard litter’d with barrels and timbers, and across it to a black empty barn of a place, where a flight of wooden steps glimmer’d, that led to an upper story. We climb’d these stairs at a run.
“Faugh! What a vile smell!”
The loft was pil’d high with great bales of wool, as I found by the touch, and their odor enough to satisfy an army. Nevertheless, I was groping about for a place to hide, when Delia touch’d me by the arm, and pointed.
Looking, I descried in the gloom a tall quadrilateral of purple, not five steps away, with a speck of light shining near the top of it, and three dark streaks running down the middle, whereof one was much thicker than the rest. ’Twas an open doorway; the speck, a star fram’d within it; the broad streak, a ship’s mast reaching up; and the lesser ones two ends of a rope, working over a pulley above my head, and used for lowering the bales of wool on shipboard.
Advancing, I stood on the sill and look’d down. On the black water, twenty feet below, lay a three-masted trader, close against the warehouse. My toes stuck out over her deck, almost.
At first glance I could see no
