uring down a quiet
street, halted before a locksmith's house--the Golden Key.

'Beat at the door,' cried Hugh to the men about him. 'We want one of his
craft to-night. Beat it in, if no one answers.'

The shop was shut. Both door and shutters were of a strong and sturdy
kind, and they knocked without effect. But the impatient crowd raising
a cry of 'Set fire to the house!' and torches being passed to the front,
an upper window was thrown open, and the stout old locksmith stood
before them.

'What now, you villains!' he demanded. 'Where is my daughter?'

'Ask no questions of us, old man,' retorted Hugh, waving his comrades
to be silent, 'but come down, and bring the tools of your trade. We want
you.'

'Want me!' cried the locksmith, glancing at the regimental dress he
wore: 'Ay, and if some that I could name possessed the hearts of mice,
ye should have had me long ago. Mark me, my lad--and you about him do
the same. There are a score among ye whom I see now and know, who are
dead men from this hour. Begone! and rob an undertaker's while you can!
You'll want some coffins before long.'

'Will you come down?' cried Hugh.

'Will you give me my daughter, ruffian?' cried the locksmith.

'I know nothing of her,' Hugh rejoined. 'Burn the door!'

'Stop!' cried the locksmith, in a voice that made them
falter--presenting, as he spoke, a gun. 'Let an old man do that. You can
spare him better.'

The young fellow who held the light, and who was stooping down before
the door, rose hastily at these words, and fell back. The locksmith ran
his eye along the upturned faces, and kept the weapon levelled at the
threshold of his house. It had no other rest than his shoulder, but was
as steady as the house itself.

'Let the man who does it, take heed to his prayers,' he said firmly; 'I
warn him.'

Snatching a torch from one who stood near him, Hugh was stepping forward
with an oath, when he was arrested by a shrill and piercing shriek, and,
looking upward, saw a fluttering garment on the house-top.

There was another shriek, and another, and then a shrill voice cried,
'Is Simmun below!' At the same moment a lean neck was stretched over
the parapet, and Miss Miggs, indistinctly seen in the gathering gloom
of evening, screeched in a frenzied manner, 'Oh! dear gentlemen, let me
hear Simmuns's answer from his own lips. Speak to me, Simmun. Speak to
me!'

Mr Tappertit, who was not at all flattered by this compliment, looked
up, a