"Body o' me! What-a-deuce? Only a little fighting sparrow of a
royalist!" cried a swaggering colt of a fellow in officer's uniform.
"No one here, lad?" demanded a second.
And I saw Eli Kirke close his eyes as in prayer.
"Sir," said I, drawing myself up on my heels, "I don't understand you.
I--am here."
They bellowed a laugh and were tumbling 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.
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