“Pray, sir, what is your determination?” asked Wilton.  “For my part, I require free permission to quit this place with this gentleman and Lady Laura Gaveston; and nothing shall prevent me from so doing at the risk of my life.”

“You shall do so, sir,” replied Sir George Barkley, “but you shall go before a magistrate in the first instance.  Here are evident marks of violence having been committed upon the person of some one; the staircase, the vestibule, the corridors, are covered with blood; your coat, your collar, your face, are also bloody; and we feel ourselves bound, before we let you depart, to have this matter strictly inquired into.”

“Oh, go before a magistrate at once,” said Laura, in a low voice:  “we have nothing to fear from that, and they have everything.”

“Showing clearly that it is a pretence, dear lady,” replied Wilton, in the same low tone.  “Keep behind the barricade.  I see one of those men creeping up from the door with a pistol in his hand.—­Sir,” he continued, addressing Sir George Barkley, “in those circumstances, the best plan for you to pursue will be to bring a magistrate here.  I neither know who you are, nor what are your views; but I find this young lady, who has been carried off from her father’s house, illegally brought hither, and detained.  I know the house to be a suspected one; and although, as I have before said, I neither know who you are, nor what are your views, and do not by any means wish to know, yet the circumstances in which I find you are sufficiently doubtful to justify me in refusing to quit this spot, and place myself in your hands, unless every man present gives me his word of honour as a gentleman that I shall go free whithersoever I will.  If, therefore, you think a magistrate requisite to inquire into this business, send for one.  I think, however, that you would do much better to plight me your word at once, and let me go.  I know no one but Sir John Fenwick here:  therefore I can betray no one but him; and to Sir John Fenwick I pledge my word that I will not mention him.”

It was evident that Sir John Fenwick put no trust in such assurances, and he was seen speaking vehemently with Sir George Barkley.  At the same moment, however, a low conversation was carried on in a slow and careless sort of manner by Charnock and the other, who were just behind.

“I can’t get a shot at the Captain,” said Charnock, calmly.  “His head is covered by that table they’ve set on end.—­Stop a bit, stop a bit!”

“Better let me settle this young fellow first,” said the other, “and then the stupid fools will be obliged to make a rush upon the Captain.  When once blood is drawn, they must go on, you know.”

“Very well,” replied Charnock, “I don’t care”—­and there was the sudden click of a pistol-lock heard behind.  “His eye is upon you,” said Charnock.  “Make haste!  He is cocking his pistol!”

The man instantly raised the weapon that was in his hand, and was in the very act of firing over the shoulder of Sir George Barkley, when his arm was suddenly knocked up by a blow from behind, and the ball passed through the window, a yard and a half above Wilton’s head.