“He demand it!  I understand you not, Sir Giles!” exclaimed the old usurer.

“Let him speak, I pray you, Sir Francis,” returned the other.  “You will the sooner learn what you desire to know.”

CHAPTER XV.

Clement Lanyere’s Story.

“My tale shall be briefly told,” said Lanyere.  “You are aware, Sir Francis, that in the pursuit of my avocation I am often led into the most dangerous quarters of the metropolis, and at hours when the peril to any honest man is doubled.  Adventures have not unfrequently occurred to me when so circumstanced, and I have been indebted to my right hand and my good sword for deliverance from many a desperate risk.  Late one night, I chanced to be in the neighbourhood of Whitefriars, in a place called the Wilderness, when, hearing cries for help, accompanied by the clash of steel, I rushed towards a narrow court, whence the clatter and vociferations resounded, and perceived by the light of the moon, which fortunately happened to be shining brightly at the time, one man engaged with four others, who were evidently bent upon cutting his throat in order to take his purse.  He defended himself gallantly, but the odds were too great, and he must have been speedily slain—­for the villains swore with great oaths they would murder him if he continued to resist them—­if I had not come to the rescue.  I arrived just in time.  They were pressing him hard.  I struck down the point of a rapier which was within an inch of his breast—­gave the swashbuckler who carried it a riposta he did not expect, and sent him off bowling—­and then addressed myself to the others with such good effect, that in a brief space the stranger and I were alone together.  I had been slightly wounded in the fray; but I thought nothing of it—­a mere scratch.  It seemed something more to the gentleman I had preserved.  He expressed great concern for me, and bound his handkerchief round my arm.  I was about to depart, but he detained me to renew his professions of gratitude for the service I had rendered him, and his earnest wish that he might be able to requite me.  From his discourse, and from the texts of Scripture he mixed up with it, I knew him to be a Puritan; and I might have supposed him to be a preacher of the Gospel, had he not carried a sword, and borne himself so manfully in the encounter.  However, he left me no doubt on the subject, for he told me he was named Hugh Calveley, and that he had served in the wars with more honour to himself than profit.  He added, that if the knaves had succeeded in their design, and robbed and slain him, they would have deprived his daughter of her sole protector; and, indeed, of all means of subsistence, since the little they had would be lost with him.  On hearing this, a thought struck me, and I said to him—­’You have expressed an earnest desire to requite the service I have just been fortunate enough to render you, and as I am well assured your professions are not idly