It would almost seem as if that moment were come, for, as the words were uttered, Mompesson fainted from loss of blood and intensity of pain, and in this state he was placed upon a hurdle tied to a horse’s heels, and conveyed back to the Fleet.

As threatened, he was doomed to long and solitary imprisonment, and the only person, beside the jailer, admitted to his cell, was his unrelenting foe.  A steel mirror was hung up in his dungeon, so that he might see to what extent his features had been disfigured.

In this way three years rolled by—­years of uninterrupted happiness to Sir Jocelyn and Lady Mounchensey, as well as to Master Richard Taverner and his dame; but of increasing gloom to the captive in his solitary cell in the Fleet.  Of late, he had become so fierce and unmanageable that he had to be chained to the wall.  He sprang at his jailer and tried to strangle him, and gnashed his teeth, and shook his fists in impotent rage at Osmond Mounchensey.  But again his mood changed, and he would supplicate for mercy, crawling on the floor, and trying to kiss the feet of his enemy, who spurned him from him.  Then he fell sick, and refused his food; and, as the sole means of preserving his life, he was removed to an airier chamber.  But as it speedily appeared, this was only a device to enable him to escape from prison,—­and it proved successful.  He was thought to be so ill that the jailer, fancying him incapable of moving, became negligent, and when Osmond Mounchensey next appeared, the prisoner had flown.  How he had effected his escape no one could at first explain; but it appeared, on inquiry, that he had been assisted by two of his old myrmidons, Captain Bludder and Staring Hugh, both of whom were prisoners at the time in the Fleet.

Osmond’s rage knew no bounds.  He vowed never to rest till he had traced out the fugitive, and brought him back.

But he experienced more difficulty in the quest than he anticipated.  No one was better acquainted with the obscure quarters and hiding-places of London than he; but in none of these retreats could he discover the object of his search.  The potentates of Whitefriars and the Mint would not have dared to harbour such an offender as Mompesson, and would have given him up at once if he had sought refuge in their territories.  But Osmond satisfied himself, by a perquisition of every house in those sanctuaries, that he was not there.  Nor had any one been seen like him.  The asylum for “masterless men,” near Smart’s Quay, and all the other dens for thieves and criminals hiding from justice, in and about the metropolis, were searched, but with the like ill result.  Hitherto, Mompesson had contrived entirely to baffle the vigilance of his foe.

At last, Osmond applied to Luke Hatton, thinking it possible his cunning might suggest some plan for the capture of the fugitive.  After listening with the greatest attention to all related to him, the apothecary pondered for awhile, and then said—­“It is plain he has trusted no one with his retreat, but I think I can find him.  Come to me on the third night from this, and you shall hear further.  Meantime, you need not relax your own search, though, if it be as I suspect, failure is sure to attend you.”