He went unattended, as was his custom. The city was too sunk
in depression to be unruly.
He crossed Chancery Lane and struck through the narrow courts which lay
between Fleet Street and Holborn. His goal was Gilpin's in Fetter Lane, a
quiet place much in favour with those of the long robe. The streets seemed
curiously quiet. It was freezing hard and threatening snow, so he flung a
fold of his cloak round his neck, muffling his ears. This deadened his
hearing, and his mind also was busy with its own thoughts, so that he did
not observe that soft steps dogged him. At the corner of an alley he was
tripped up, and a heavy garment flung over his head. He struggled to regain
his feet, but an old lameness, got at Naseby, impeded him. The cobbles,
too, were like glass, and he fell again, this time backward. His head
struck the ground, and though he did not lose consciousness, his senses
were dazed. He felt his legs and arms being deftly tied, and yards of some
soft stuff enveloping his head. He ceased to struggle as soon as he felt
the odds against him, and waited on fortune.
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