“Here’s a pretty pickle,” quoth the new comer, as he stood upon the threshold of the door.  “Which of you made all the din?  Halloa, why Peter,” he added, as he stepped up to the side of the bed and gazed upon the emaciated form of an old and well-known inmate of the Hut, “what does all this portend?”

No sooner had he stepped into the room than Edmund, seeing the doorway clear, bolted out on an ill-timed venture of escape.  He rushed along the passage, hotly pursued by his custodian, and ran without interruption into the yard; but here, alas, he was at bay.  It was not the same yard through which he had entered so shortly before, and he could find no way of exit.  It was futile to attempt anything further, and, discovering this unwelcome fact, he passively yielded himself up, and was rewarded for so doing by receiving sundry cuffs and jerks from his captors, who carried him straightway before the governor.

There are some people in the world who seem to have been born under a lucky star.  Everything upon which their hands are laid at once turns into gold; all their ventures are successful, or if they have a slight mishap it is more than compensated for directly afterwards by a grand success.  Fortune is never weary of smiling upon them; they are her prime favourites, and she marks her approval by heaping favours upon them in a most indiscriminate and prodigal manner.  Upon others she continually frowns.  All their efforts uniformly bring back a plentiful harvest of disappointment.  Their labour is ever in vain, they are left to languish in misery and to repine over the illusion which tempted them with a feigned promise of success ever nearer and nearer to ruin.

Edmund was one of these last, and this was the more inexplicable both to himself and a certain number of his friends, inasmuch as he, being an astrologer, had discovered that he was born under a lucky star.

His interview with the governor was short, but decisive.  The gaoler stated the case against him, adding to the facts here and there to embellish his story; and in a very short space of time he found himself manacled with heavy chains, which fastened him down to the floor of the damp cell into which he had been thrust.

At the Cock Tavern Sir George was ill at ease when he retired to rest that night.  His slumber was broken, and when he slept it was only to dream of his trial on the morrow.  Hobgoblins were judges, and legions of little imps bore witness against him.  Old Dame Durden rose up from her grave on purpose to bear witness against him in person, and as, in his vision, he saw her stretch out her long, bony arms towards him, he felt her cold, clammy hand upon his head, and awoke to find himself in a cold perspiration.

He attempted to quieten his fears, and tried to reassure himself, and, having succeeded in some degree in doing this, he fell asleep again.

It was a vain search for rest.  This time a myriad of hostile pygmies were dragging him down into a bottomless pit.  They tugged, and pushed, and danced upon his helpless body, and laughed in spiteful glee as he descended further and further into the dread abyss.