hey marked distinctly; yet in a glance
so brief, that, in the act of stepping back, they lost the whole, and
saw but the pale faces of each other, and the red sky above them.

Mr Haredale yielded to the entreaties of his companion--more because he
was resolved to defend him, than for any thought he had of his own life,
or any care he entertained for his own safety--and quickly re-entering
the house, they descended the stairs together. Loud blows were
thundering on the shutters, crowbars were already thrust beneath the
door, the glass fell from the sashes, a deep light shone through every
crevice, and they heard the voices of the foremost in the crowd so close
to every chink and keyhole, that they seemed to be hoarsely whispering
their threats into their very ears. They had but a moment reached the
bottom of the cellar-steps and shut the door behind them, when the mob
broke in.

The vaults were profoundly dark, and having no torch or candle--for
they had been afraid to carry one, lest it should betray their place of
refuge--they were obliged to grope with their hands. But they were not
long without light, for they had not gone far when they heard the crowd
forcing the door; and, looking back among the low-arched passages,
could see them in the distance, hurrying to and fro with flashing links,
broaching the casks, staving the great vats, turning off upon the right
hand and the left, into the different cellars, and lying down to drink
at the channels of strong spirits which were already flowing on the
ground.

They hurried on, not the less quickly for this; and had reached the only
vault which lay between them and the passage out, when suddenly, from
the direction in which they were going, a strong light gleamed upon
their faces; and before they could slip aside, or turn back, or hide
themselves, two men (one bearing a torch) came upon them, and cried in
an astonished whisper, 'Here they are!'

At the same instant they pulled off what they wore upon their heads. Mr
Haredale saw before him Edward Chester, and then saw, when the vintner
gasped his name, Joe Willet.

Ay, the same Joe, though with an arm the less, who used to make the
quarterly journey on the grey mare to pay the bill to the purple-faced
vintner; and that very same purple-faced vintner, formerly of Thames
Street, now looked him in the face, and challenged him by name.

'Give me your hand,' said Joe softly, taking it whether the astonished
vintner would