“Who is he?” again demanded Colin.
“Lupton of Kiddal,” answered Jerry.
“Mr. Lupton my father!”
“The same. I shot at him once.”
“You?”
“I, with this same right hand.”
“And I,” added Colin, “prevented it, and saved you from the gallows.”
The old man stood mute—confounded. His whole countenance changed with deadly fury, and in the next moment he rushed upon Colin with apparently the desperate intention of forcing him over the balustrades of the bridge.
A moment sufficed for his signal call, which brought Mr. Lupton instantly to the spot. The mutual recognition between Jerry and himself was but the process of a moment; and, while the latter strove all in his power to secure the former without violence, Jerry as desperately and madly aimed to bury in his bosom a long knife, which it was now discovered he held opened in his hand. The combined exertions of Mr. Lupton and Colin were, however, too much for him, and would eventually have achieved his capture, had not Jerry, with a degree of reckless desperation and agility, which struck both his assailants with momentary horror and astonishment, leaped the wall of the bridge on finding himself at the point of being taken, and casting his knife and coat from him, in an instant plunged headlong from about the centre of one of the arches into the Thames.
It was a wild leap, an insane flight into the arms of death. There was no splash in the water, but a dull, leaden sound came up, as when a heavy weight is plunged into a deep gulf. It was as if the water made no aperture, and threw up no spray; but gulfed him sullenly, as though such prey was not worth rejoicing over.