this!” cried Sir Rowland. “I know the hand—ha! my friend! and I have murdered him! And my sister was thus nobly, thus illustriously wedded. O God! O God!”
And he appeared convulsed with agony.
“Oh! if I had known this,” he exclaimed, “what guilt, what remorse might have been spared me!”
“Repentance comes too late when the deed’s done,” returned Wild, bitterly.
“It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew,” cried Trenchard. “I will set about it instantly. He shall have the estates. I will return to Manchester at once.”
“You had better take some refreshment before you start,” rejoined Wild. “‘You’ve a long journey before you.’”
As the signal was given, the Jew, who had been some time in expectation of it, darted swiftly and silently behind Sir Rowland, and flung a cloth over his head, while Jonathan, rushing upon him in front, struck him several quick and violent blows in the face with the bludgeon. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it.
During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. It had been removed from the scabbard by the Jew. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing.
“Despatch him!” roared Jonathan.
Having no means of defence, Sir Rowland cleared the blood from his vision; and, turning to see whether there was any means of escape, he descried the open door behind him leading to the Well Hole, and instantly darted through it.
“As I could wish!” cried Jonathan. “Bring the light, Nab.”
The Jew snatched up the link, and followed him.
A struggle of the most terrific kind now ensued. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. Jonathan aimed a blow at him, which, if it had taken place, must have instantly terminated the strife; but, avoiding this, he sprang at the thief-taker, and grappled with him. Firmly built, as it was, the bridge creaked in such a manner with their contending efforts, that Abraham durst not venture beyond the door, where he stood, holding the light, a horrified spectator of the scene. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief. Disengaging his right arm, Jonathan struck his victim a tremendous blow on the head with the bludgeon, that fractured his skull; and, exerting all his strength, threw him over the rails, to which he clung with the tenacity of despair.
“Spare me!” he groaned, looking upwards. “Spare me!”
Jonathan, however, instead of answering him, searched for his knife, with the intention of severing his wrist. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe.
Sir Rowland then fell.
A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water.
“Give me the link,” cried Jonathan.
Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well.
“Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery,” cried the Jew.
“What’s the use of wasting a shot?” rejoined Jonathan, savagely. “He can’t get out.”
After making several ineffectual attempts to keep himself above water, Sir Rowland sunk, and his groans, which had become gradually fainter and fainter, were heard no more.
“All’s over,” muttered Jonathan.
“Shall ve go back to de other room?” asked the Jew. “I shall breathe more freely dere. Oh! Christ! de door’s shut! It musht have schwung to during de schuffle!”
“Shut!” exclaimed Wild. “Then we’re imprisoned. The spring can’t be opened on this side.”
“Dere’s de other door!” cried Mendez, in alarm.
“It only leads to the fencing crib,” replied Wild. “There’s no outlet that way.”
“Can’t ve call for asshistanche?”
“And who’ll find us, if we do?” rejoined Wild, fiercely. “But they will find the evidences of slaughter in the other room,—the table upset,—the bloody cloth,—the dead man’s sword,—the money,—and my memorandum, which I forgot to remove. Hell’s curses! that after all my precautions I should be thus entrapped. It’s all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you’ll swing for your carelessness, I’d throw you into the well, too.”
CHAPTER XIII. THE SUPPER AT MR. KNEEBONE’S
Persuaded that Jack Sheppard would keep his appointment with Mr. Kneebone, and feeling certain of capturing him if he did so, Shotbolt, on quitting Newgate, hurried to the New Prison to prepare for the enterprise. After debating with himself for some time whether he should employ an assistant, or make the attempt alone, his love of gain overcame his fears, and he decided upon the latter plan. Accordingly, having armed himself with various weapons, including a stout oaken staff then ordinarily borne by the watch, and put a coil of rope and a gag in his pocket, to be ready in case of need, he set out, about ten o’clock, on the expedition.
Before proceeding to Wych Street, he called at the Lodge to see how matters were going on, and found Mrs. Spurling and Austin at their evening meal, with Caliban in attendance.
“Well, Mr. Shotbolt,” cried the turnkey, “I’ve good news for you. Mr. Wild has doubled his offer, and the governor has likewise proclaimed a reward of one hundred guineas for Jack’s apprehension.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Shotbolt.
“Read that,” rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard. “I ought to tell you that Mr. Wild’s reward is conditional upon Jack’s being taken before to-morrow morning. So I fear there’s little chance of any one getting it.”
“You think so, eh?” chuckled Shotbolt, who was eagerly perusing the reward, and congratulating himself upon his caution; “you think so—ha! ha! Well, don’t go to bed, that’s all.”
“What for?” demanded the turnkey.
“Because the prisoner’s arrival might disturb you—ha! ha!”
“I’ll lay you twenty guineas you don’t take him to-night,” rejoined Austin.
“Done!” cried Shotbolt. “Mrs. Spurling, you’re a witness to the bet. Twenty guineas, mind. I shan’t let you off a farthing. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it.”
“Never count your chickens till they’re hatched,” observed Mrs. Spurling, drily.
“My
