When I said that the old man looked at us more suspiciously than ever, and shook his head as if he had no trust in our tale.
“There is no man run into my house,” said he, and made as if he would shut the door in our faces. But the boatman, not to be outdone, placed his foot within the threshold and began to push his way in. Now, at this the old man set up a violent clamour, calling for help, and shouting to those near at hand that thieves were breaking into his house, so that we presently found ourselves in the centre of a crowd, every member of which was asking at the same time what all the uproar was about.
“Friends,” said I, trying to quiet the old man, who was still calling out that we were thieves and designed to rob him, “we are peaceable men enough, and have no intention of robbing anybody. We are in pursuit of a man who must be punished for his misdeeds, and we followed him upon the bridge here and have traced him to this house, into the open door of which he ran but a few moments ago. Because we want to search for him this ancient gentleman calls us thieves.”
“What hath the man done?” asked several near me.
“As much wickedness as half a dozen ordinary men, sir,” said I, “and hath robbed his own father into the bargain.”
“Give the rogue no quarter,” said a great burly man. “Come, let them in, Master Bradley; ’tis poor work standing against justice. What, man! they will do thy house no harm.”
“I saw no man run into my house,” said the old gentleman. “If any man entered he hath run up the stairs.”
“Let us turn him out of his hole,” said the big man. “Keep an eye on the windows, some of you, lest he escape that way. Robbed his father, quotha! Alack, a rope is too good for such.”
We pressed forward and entered the house and ran up the stairs, some going into one room and some into another, while the old man toiled behind us, wringing his hands and begging us not to harm his goods. But in none of the sleeping chambers, nor in any nook or corner on the stairs, could we find a trace of Dennis. I made my way to the windows overlooking the river, and, pushing the casement open, looked out. Underneath me at a great distance lay the water, splashing and lapping the piles of the bridge, with here and there a faint gleam of light reflected from the lamps which gleamed through the windows of the houses. There was no way by which he could have escaped in the rear of the house. We turned to the last flight of stairs, which seemed to lead into the roof of the house, and terminated in a trapdoor. Up these we pushed, only to find the trap closed and evidently barred from above.
“I warrant me he hath run up here and bolted down the trapdoor,” said the burly citizen, who was blowing and panting at my side. “He thinketh to escape by the roofs, no doubt. He—God’s mercy, what voice is that?”
A great shout came up from the people who had gathered on the bridge below.
“They see something,” said the boatman. “To the windows!”
We scrambled down the ladder, and running to the window which looked upon the bridge, threw it open and pushed out our heads. Then we saw that the road beneath was full of people, and that they were all looking up to the roof of the house opposite that which we had entered, where stood Dennis Watson, who had evidently leaped across the gulf that yawned between, and was now bracing himself for a climb along the tiles on the other side.
“Ah!” said the boatman, “I see what he is after, master. He is making for the rear of the tavern, where there is a stair which leads to the river. There are always boats fastened to the pier underneath the tavern, and he will go down the stair and escape in one.”
And with that he ran down to the bridge and made for the inn, while I and the men that had followed us in remained at the window watching my enemy’s movements. He was climbing along the roof of the opposite house with very careful steps, for the tiles and the woodwork were slippery with snow, and the roof sloped dangerously. Presently he came to a part where there was naught to hold by, and rose to his feet and balanced himself on the uncertain edge of the roof. When I saw him in this perilous position I was minded to shout to him to return and meet me in fair fight, for I had no wish to see him dash himself to pieces. But before I could open my lips there was a sudden gust of icy wind blew down the river and caused him to stagger. His foot seemed to slip on the snow-covered roof; he made a great effort to recover his balance; then he slipped further and further, and finally fell over the edge of the gable, and came to the bridge beneath with a heavy sound that turned me sick.
“He hath escaped you, master,” said the big man at my side. “He is gone where you cannot catch him.”
We hurried down the stairs and found a crowd surrounding the body. Dennis Watson was dead enough, for he had fallen some fifty feet and lighted upon his head. Bitterly as he had wronged me and mine, I could not avoid feeling sorry for him as I saw him lying there with the folks pushing their way through the crowd to stare at
