through the
Gate eager to see what the rumpus was about or to take part in it on the
chance of plunder, and they did not heed the shrinking figure in the
deep doorway of a house close to the bridge.

Lavinia was torn with anxiety. The young man whose purse she was holding
tightly--how was he faring? She could not help him by staying. Dorrimore
and Dorrimore's coachman with the guinea he had offered for her capture
had to be thought of. Her danger was by no means over. The roadway was
comparatively clear. Now was her chance if she was ever to have one.
She stole from the doorway; the stairs leading to the river were close
at hand and down these she sped.

The tide was at low ebb. She was standing on the shingle. But she looked
in vain for a waterman. There were plenty of boats on the river, most of
them loaded with merry parties returning from Spring Gardens, Vauxhall,
and no boats were plying for hire. She dared not ascend to the Borough.
Bullies and thieves abounded in the southern approaches to the bridge.
She crept down to one of the abutments of the bridge and tremulously
listened to the turmoil going on above.

Meanwhile the man who had come to her rescue was being hardly pressed.
He was surrounded by a mob led by Dorrimore's coachman. It was not the
leader who had struck the blow which made him lose his hold of Lavinia's
arm, but one of the mob for no motive other than a love for brutality.
The coachman had forced his way to the front a minute or so afterwards.
Almost at the same time a stone hit Lavinia's champion in the cheek,
cutting it and drawing blood.

"Cowards!" he shouted. "If you're for fighting at least fight fair. Who
did that?" and he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"At your service, sir. Give me the credit of it. Captain Jeremy Rofflash
isn't the man to let the chance of a little pretty sword play go by."

The speaker was the man who acted as Dorrimore's coachman. He was every
inch a braggadocio. There were many such who had been with Marlborough
and had returned to their native country to earn their living by their
wits and by hiring out their swords.

The fellow who called himself Jeremy Rofflash had not time to draw his
sword; the fist of the man he had thought to frighten had shot out swift
as an arrow, catching him between the eyes and tumbling him backwards.

At the sight of the young gallant's spirit a number of the mob
instantly ranged themselves on his side. Others came on