“Would you had killed him!” cried the other, fiercely.  “I have lost all feelings of a father for him.  He it was who contrived my arrest, and he would have gladly seen me borne to the scaffold, certain it would have freed him from me for ever.  I was hurried away by the officers from the scene of strife, and conveyed to the Tun at Cornhill, which you know has been converted into a round-house, and where I was locked up for the night.  But while I was lying on the floor of my prison, driven well-nigh frantic by what had occurred, there were two persons without labouring to effect my deliverance—­nor did they labour in vain.  These were Chowles and Judith, my foster-sister, and whom, you may remember, I suspected—­and most unfairly—­of intending my betrayal.  By means of a heavy bribe, they prevailed on one of the officers to connive at my escape.  An iron bar was removed from the window of my prison, and I got through the aperture.  Judith concealed me for some days in the vaults of Saint Faith’s, after which I fled into the country, where I wandered about for several months, under the name of Philip Grant.  Having learnt that my son though severely hurt by you, had recovered from his wound, and that his sister, the Lady Isabella, had accompanied him to his seat in Staffordshire, I proceeded thither, and saw her, unknown to him.  I found her heart still true to you.  She told me you had disappeared immediately after the termination of the conflict, and had not been heard of till her brother was out of danger, when you returned to Wood-street.”

“The information was correct,” replied Leonard.  “I was dragged away by a person whom I did not recognise at the time, but who proved to be the Earl of Rochester.  He conducted me to a place of safety, thrust a purse into my hand, and left me.  As soon as I could do so with safety, I returned to my master’s house.  But how long have you been in London?”

“Nearly a month,” replied Grant.  “And now let me ask you one question.  Do you ever think of Isabella?”

“Often, very often,” replied Leonard.  “But as I dare not indulge the hope of a union with her, I have striven to banish her image from my mind.”

“She cannot forget you, Leonard,” rejoined Grant.  “And now to my proposal.  I have another plan for your aggrandisement that cannot fail.  I am in possession of a monstrous design, the revelation of which will procure you whatever you desire.  Ask a title from the king, and he will give it; and when in possession of that title, demand the hand of the Lady Isabella, and her proud brother will not refuse you.  Call in your porter—­seize me.  I will offer a feigned resistance.  Convey me before the king.  Make your own terms with him.  He will accede to them.  Will you do it?”

“No,” replied Leonard, “I will not purchase the daughter at the price of the father’s life.”

“Heed me not,” replied Grant, supplicatingly, “I am wholly indifferent to life.  And what matters it whether I am dragged to the scaffold for one crime or another?”