The other men, being in armor, were compelled to doff their iron before jumping in to save the king.  The night was dark, but we were so near the landing that I saw two of the men begin to throw off their armor, and presently I heard two splashes, followed quickly by two pistol shots in our direction.  In our direction, I say, because both of the balls struck our boat.

After the pistol shots, all was quiet, but I knew that one of the king’s barges, with a dozen men at as many sweeps, and a score of men at arms, would soon follow us.  I made my way to the stern thwart of our boat, where Betty was sculling for dear life, taking her course diagonally across the river toward the Southwark bank.  After we had passed the swift current in the middle of the river, which I thought she had been seeking, I asked:—­

“Why do you not keep to the centre, Betty?  You are making toward the other bank.”

“Yes,” she replied, with what breath she could spare.  “We’ll find a stand of boats tied to poles almost opposite Temple Bar stairs.  There we may take a pair of oars.  I’m afraid I can’t hold out at this much longer.”

We soon found the boat stand, and, with little ceremony, appropriated a pair of oars, leaving a crown on the thwart of the rifled boat.

Hamilton and I quickly adjusted the stolen sweeps in the oar-locks, Betty sat down on the stern thwart, guided the boat to the swift water of the centre, and immediately we sped toward London Bridge at a fine rate.  Presently, as we had expected, we heard the rapid, regular stroke of the sweeps in the king’s barge, and in a few minutes it was so close behind us that we could see the men at the sweeps.  When they saw us, they fired their pistols at us, but we did not hear the bullets splash in the water, so we knew they did not have our range.

My greatest fear of the bullets was for Bettina’s sake, she being in the rear and more exposed to the enemy’s fire than we who were at the sweeps, but I could not leave my oar to take her place, nor could I have steered the boat had I done so, being unfamiliar with the river.  All I could do was to hasten our stroke, which George and I did to our utmost, and soon the welcome beacon over the centre arch of London Bridge came into view, dimly at first, but brightening with every stroke of our sweeps.  As we approached the Bridge, De Grammont nervously called our attention to the danger ahead of us.

“Yes, we’ll take the middle arch, and I shall enjoy seeing the king’s barge follow us,” I answered, with what breath I could spare.

“Take the middle arch, and the tide running as a river in flood?” cried De Grammont, speaking French, being too excited to sort out English words.  “Never!  Never!  Let me out!”

“Do not fear, count,” I answered.  “Our pilot—­”

“Our pilot!  Ah, sacrament!  We are lost!  Our pilot is a mere girl!”