“What do you mean?” asked the female, in astonishment.

“I mean what I say,” replied Jonathan.  “Perhaps you don’t know that this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can assure you.  However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell has got off with his own brat.”

“Then this is not my child?” exclaimed she, with increased astonishment.

“If you have a child there, it certainly is not,” answered Jonathan, a little surprised; “for I left your brat in the charge of Blueskin, who is still among the crowd in the street, unless, as is not unlikely, he’s gone to see your other friend disciplined at the pump.”

“Merciful providence!” exclaimed the female.  “Whose child can this be?”

“How the devil should I know!” replied Jonathan gruffly.  “I suppose it didn’t drop through the ceiling, did it?  Are you quite sure it’s flesh and blood?” asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain.

“My child! my child!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, rushing from the adjoining room.  “Where is it?”

“Are you the mother of this child?” inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. Sheppard.

“I am—­I am!” cried the widow, snatching the babe, and pressing it to her breast with rapturous delight “God be thanked, I have found it!”

“We have both good reason to be grateful,” added the lady, with great emotion.

“’Sblood!” cried Jonathan, who had listened to the foregoing conversation with angry wonder, “I’ve been nicely done here.  Fool that I was to part with my lantern!  But I’ll soon set myself straight.  What ho! lights! lights!”

And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs.

“Where shall I fly?” exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror.  “They will kill me, if they find me, as they would have killed my husband and child.  Oh God! my limbs fail me.”

“Make an effort, Madam,” cried Mrs. Sheppard, as a storm of furious voices resounded from below, and torches were seen mounting the stairs; “they are coming!—­they are coming!—­fly!—­to the roof! to the roof.”

“No,” cried the lady, “this room—­I recollect—­it has a back window.”

“It is shut,” said Mrs. Sheppard.

“It is open,” replied the lady, rushing towards it, and springing through the outlet.

“Where is she?” thundered Jonathan, who at this moment reached Mrs. Sheppard.

“She has flown up stairs,” replied the widow.

“You lie, hussy!” replied Jonathan, rudely pushing her aside, as she vainly endeavoured to oppose his entrance into the room; “she is here.  Hist!” cried he, as a scream was heard from without.  “By G—! she has missed her footing.”

There was a momentary and terrible silence, broken only by a few feeble groans.

Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch.