en--and at
length stopping before him, said:

'Get to bed, and sleep for a couple of hours that you may wake penitent,
and with some of your senses about you. Be sorry for what you have
done, and we will try to save you. If I call him by five o'clock,' said
Varden, turning hurriedly to his wife, and he washes himself clean
and changes his dress, he may get to the Tower Stairs, and away by the
Gravesend tide-boat, before any search is made for him. From there he
can easily get on to Canterbury, where your cousin will give him
work till this storm has blown over. I am not sure that I do right in
screening him from the punishment he deserves, but he has lived in this
house, man and boy, for a dozen years, and I should be sorry if for this
one day's work he made a miserable end. Lock the front-door, Miggs, and
show no light towards the street when you go upstairs. Quick, Simon! Get
to bed!'

'And do you suppose, sir,' retorted Mr Tappertit, with a thickness
and slowness of speech which contrasted forcibly with the rapidity and
earnestness of his kind-hearted master--'and do you suppose, sir, that I
am base and mean enough to accept your servile proposition?--Miscreant!'

'Whatever you please, Sim, but get to bed. Every minute is of
consequence. The light here, Miggs!'

'Yes yes, oh do! Go to bed directly,' cried the two women together.

Mr Tappertit stood upon his feet, and pushing his chair away to show
that he needed no assistance, answered, swaying himself to and fro, and
managing his head as if it had no connection whatever with his body:

'You spoke of Miggs, sir--Miggs may be smothered!'

'Oh Simmun!' ejaculated that young lady in a faint voice. 'Oh mim! Oh
sir! Oh goodness gracious, what a turn he has give me!'

'This family may ALL be smothered, sir,' returned Mr Tappertit, after
glancing at her with a smile of ineffable disdain, 'excepting Mrs V.
I have come here, sir, for her sake, this night. Mrs Varden, take this
piece of paper. It's a protection, ma'am. You may need it.'

With these words he held out at arm's length, a dirty, crumpled scrap of
writing. The locksmith took it from him, opened it, and read as follows:

'All good friends to our cause, I hope will be particular, and do no
injury to the property of any true Protestant. I am well assured that
the proprietor of this house is a staunch and worthy friend to the
cause.

GEORGE GORDON.'

'What's this!' said the locksmith, with an altered