The boat was now rapidly nearing London Bridge, and the oarsmen prepared to shoot one of its narrow arches. The unfortunate captive had struggled desperately to loose the cords which bound his hands and feet; alas! all his efforts were in vain—he had been too securely bound by practised hands.
Yet he found it possible, by rubbing his head against the side of the boat, to disengage the gag which had almost suffocated him.
Then, collecting all his strength, he shrieked forth piercing cries for "help" until his captors had sprung upon him and had replaced the gag.
But his cries were not unheard, though he knew it not!
In the afternoon of that day William and Ralph Jefferay had gone down-stream to Greenwich Park, and had strolled awhile beneath the majestic elms and oaks which begirt the royal palace.
As evening fell they betook themselves to their light boat, and, being dexterous oarsmen, they made rapid progress against the swift-flowing tide, now on the ebb.
They had no time to spare, for both the young men had accepted invitations to the Queen's Revel at Whitehall, and they must needs go first to Gray's Inn.
They passed London Bridge beneath its widest arch, the central one, and were now opposite St. Paul's Wharf.
At this moment a piercing cry for help rent the air, and the twins instantly rested upon their oars, and listened eagerly for a repetition of the cry. Alas! there was none; the silence of night was again upon the river.
"Oh, Ralph!" said William, "that was a genuine cry for aid; it came from some poor creature in deadly peril. Oh! what can we do?"