into a run. They were the feet of the watch,
coming to my rescue.

"Up with him," said the leader among my captors. "Quick, in to the
Colonel with him."

"No, no! Drop it. I'm off. Here's the watch," cried the other hurriedly.

They let me drop on to the pavement after half lifting me. In five
seconds more they were scattering to shelter. As I rose to my feet,
flinging off the flour-sack, I found myself in the midst of the city
watch, about a dozen men, all armed, whose leader carried a lantern.
The windows of the great inn were open; people were thronging on to the
balcony to see what the matter was; citizens came to their house-doors.
At that moment, Mr. Jermyn appeared. The captain of the guard was asking
questions in Dutch. The guardsmen were peering at my face in the lantern
light.

Mr. Jermyn questioned me quickly as to what had happened. He interpreted
my tale to the guard. I was his servant, he told them. I had been
attacked by unknown robbers, some of whom, at least, were English. One
of them had tried to stifle me with a flour-sack, which, on examination
under the lantern, proved to be the sack of Robert Harling, Corn-miller,
Eastry. Goodness knows how it came to be there; for ship's flour travels
in cask. Mr. Jermyn gave an address, where we could be found if any of
the villains were caught; but he added that it was useless to expect
me to identify any of them, since the attack had been made in the dark,
with the victim securely blindfolded. He gave the leader of the men some
money. The guard moved away to look for the culprits (long before in
hiding, one would think), while Mr. Jermyn took me away with him.

As we went, I looked up at the inn balcony, from which several heads
looked down upon us. Behind them, in the lighted room, in profile, in
full view, was the lady of the fierce eyes. I knew her at once, in spite
of the grey Spanish (man's) hat she wore, slouched over her face. She
was all swathed in a Spanish riding cloak. One took her for a handsome
young man. But I knew that she was my enemy. I knew her name now, too;
Aurelia. She was looking down at me, or rather at us, for she could not
have made out our faces. Her face was sad. She seemed uninterested;
she had, perhaps, enough sorrow of her own at that moment, without
the anxieties of others. A big, burly, hulking, handsome person of the
swaggering sort which used to enter the army in those days, left the
balcony hurriedly. I saw him at the win