At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood altered the position of the bundle.  The stranger turned his head at the sound.

“By Heaven!” cried he in a tone of surprise, “you have an infant there?”

“To be sure I have,” replied Wood, angrily; for, finding that the intentions of the stranger were pacific, so far as he was concerned, he thought he might safely venture on a slight display of spirit.  “It’s very well you haven’t crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes’-bag.  But some people have no consideration.”

“That child may be the means of saving me,” muttered the stranger, as if struck by a new idea:  “I shall gain time by the expedient.  Do you live here?”

“Not exactly,” answered the carpenter.

“No matter.  The door is open, so it is needless to ask leave to enter.  Ha!” exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded at no great distance along the thoroughfare, “not a moment is to be lost.  Give me that precious charge,” he added, snatching the bundle from Wood.  “If I escape, I will reward you.  Your name?”

“Owen Wood,” replied the carpenter; “I’ve no reason to be ashamed of it.  And now, a fair exchange, Sir.  Yours?”

The stranger hesitated.  The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses.

“My name is Darrell,” said the fugitive hastily.  “But, if you are discovered, answer no questions, as you value your life.  Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it.  Remember! not a word!”

So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood’s shoulders, dashed the lantern to the ground, and extinguished the light.  A moment afterwards, the door was closed and bolted, and the carpenter found himself alone.

“Mercy on us!” cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame.  “The Dutchman was right, after all.”

This exclamation had scarcely escaped him, when the discharge of a pistol was heard, and a bullet whizzed past his ears.

“I have him!” cried a voice in triumph.

A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat.  This person was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux.

“Mur—­der!” roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled.

“Damnation!” exclaimed one of the leaders of the party in a furious tone, snatching a torch from an attendant, and throwing its light full upon the face of the carpenter; “this is not the villain, Sir Cecil.”

“So I find, Rowland,” replied the other, in accents of deep disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp.  “I could have sworn I saw him enter this passage.  And how comes his cloak on this knave’s shoulders?”