over one another in their haste
up the attic stairs. Then my blood went cold with fear, for the memory
of that poor old man going to the shambles of London flashed back.

A window lifted and fell in the attic gable. With a rush I had slammed
the door and was craning out full length from the window-sill. Against
the lattice timber-work of the plastered wall below the attic window
clung a figure in Geneva cloak, with portmanteau under arm. It was the
man who had supped so late with Eli Kirke.

"Sir," I whispered, fearing to startle him from perilous footing, "let
me hold your portmanteau. Jump to the slant roof below."

For a second his face went ashy, but he tossed me the bag, gained the
shed roof at a leap, snatched back the case, and with a "Lord bless
thee, child!" was down and away.

The spurred boots of the searchers clanked on the stairs. A blowing of
horns! They were all to horse and off as fast as the hounds coursed
away. The deep, far baying of the dogs, now loud, now low, as the
trail ran away or the wind blew clear, told where the chase led inland.
If the fugitive but hid till the dogs passed he was safe enough; but of
a sudden came the hoarse, furious barkings that signal hot scent.

What had happened was plain.

The poor wretch had crossed the road and given the hounds clew. The
baying came nearer. He had discovered his mistake and was trying to
regain the house.

Balaam stood saddled to carry Eli Kirke to the docks. 'Twas a wan
hope, but in a twinkling I was riding like wind for the barking behind
the hill. A white-faced man broke from the brush at crazy pace.

"God ha' mercy, sir," I cried, leaping off; "to horse and away! Ride
up the brook bed to throw the hounds off."

I saw him in saddle, struck Balaam's flank a blow that set pace for a
gallop, turned, and--for a second time that day was lifted from the
ground.

"Pardieu! Clean done!" says a low voice. "'Tis a pretty trick!"

And I felt myself set up before a rider.

"To save thee from the hounds," says the voice.

Scarce knowing whether I dreamed, I looked over my shoulder to see one
who was neither royalist nor Puritan--a thin, swarth man, tall and
straight as an Indian, bare-shaven and scarred from war, with long,
wiry hair and black eyes full of sparks.

The pack came on in a whirl to lose scent at the stream, and my rescuer
headed our horse away from the rabble, doffing his beaver familiarly to
the officers galloping