cries aroused; and presently a whole
fleet of sailors was in full pursuit. But Jack ashore was a bad runner,
even in the fifteenth century, and Dick, besides, had a start, which he
rapidly improved, until, as he drew near the entrance of a narrow lane,
he even paused and looked laughingly behind him.

Upon the white floor of snow, all the shipmen of Shoreby came clustering
in an inky mass, and tailing out rearward in isolated clumps. Every man
was shouting or screaming; every man was gesticulating with both arms in
air; some one was continually falling; and to complete the picture, when
one fell, a dozen would fall upon the top of him.

The confused mass of sound which they rolled up as high as to the moon
was partly comical and partly terrifying to the fugitive whom they were
hunting. In itself, it was impotent, for he made sure no seaman in the
port could run him down. But the mere volume of noise, in so far as it
must awake all the sleepers in Shoreby and bring all the skulking
sentries to the street, did really threaten him with danger in the front.
So, spying a dark doorway at a corner, he whipped briskly into it, and
let the uncouth hunt go by him, still shouting and gesticulating, and all
red with hurry and white with tumbles in the snow.

It was a long while, indeed, before this great invasion of the town by
the harbour came to an end, and it was long before silence was restored.
For long, lost sailors were still to be heard pounding and shouting
through the streets in all directions and in every quarter of the town.
Quarrels followed, sometimes among themselves, sometimes with the men of
the patrols; knives were drawn, blows given and received, and more than
one dead body remained behind upon the snow.

When, a full hour later, the last seaman returned grumblingly to the
harbour side and his particular tavern, it may fairly be questioned if he
had ever known what manner of man he was pursuing, but it was absolutely
sure that he had now forgotten. By next morning there were many strange
stories flying; and a little while after, the legend of the devil's
nocturnal visit was an article of faith with all the lads of Shoreby.

But the return of the last seaman did not, even yet, set free young
Shelton from his cold imprisonment in the doorway.

For some time after, there was a great activity of patrols; and special
parties came forth to make the round of the place and report to one or
other of the great lo