One glance behind him showed him the officers on the gutter and preparing to ascend the roof.
“Come down, or we fire!” cried one.
“No—no,” shouted Sir Francis, “take him alive; he cannot escape.”
“Cannot escape?” groaned Britton as he made frantic efforts to reach the top of the roof, but each time foiled by his own too powerful struggles, for the small flat tiles kept coming off in his hands, which were already torn and bleeding from his recent exertions.
Some flambeaux were now elevated on long poles, borrowed from a neighbouring shop by the maskers, and a broad red glare was cast upon the roof of the Chequers, bewildering the eyes of the smith as well as making him visible to all his enemies. Then shouts, hoots, screams, and all sorts of discordant cries burst from the rapidly increasing crowd below, while several of the officers began to crawl up the roof after Britton, who by the most tremendous efforts had nearly succeeded in gaining the summit.
“Come down, men,” cried Sir Francis to his officers—”he is in our power—down, all of you.”
The magistrate had sent one of the officers along the gutter with instructions to ascend the roof as rapidly as possible some distance on, and getting upon the other slope meet Britton, when he should reach the top; and seize him. This manœuvre was executed with adroitness and despatch, for what to the terrified and half-maddened Britton was a task of immense difficulty, was nothing to the cool and determined officer, whose head exactly rose up and faced Britton’s as he reached the summit of the roof.
With a cry of rage Britton clutched the man by the collar, at the same moment that the officer made a desperate attempt to push him down the sloping roof into the gutter. Then all the devil in the smith’s nature seemed to revive—fury kindled his eyes, and with a yell more like that of a wild beast than a human being, he dragged the officer over the pinnacle of the roof, as if he had been a child, and dashing down with them tiles, mortar, and rubbish, the two rolled with tremendous speed into the gutter.
There was a shout from the crowd below, for Britton’s capture appeared certain, when a large piece of the flat stone which formed the street side of the gutter gave way with the shock of the two rolling bodies, and fell into the street with an awful crash. A shriek then arose from a hundred throats—one half of either Britton’s body or the officer’s, no one could tell which, hung over the abyss. There was one plunge of the feet, and many of the crowd turned away their eyes, as before the officers above, or Sir Francis Hartleton could get a hold of them, both Britton and his captor fell over, and locked in an embrace of death, reached the pavement, with a dull, hideous sound. There was then a rush forward of the crowd, but it was found in vain to attempt to unlock the death clutch of the two men—both were dead. Britton’s face was terribly disfigured, and when, with a wild terrible cry, Maud sprung to the corpses, it was only by seeing that the one whose face was discernible, was not Britton, that she could guess the other to be the savage smith, who had worked her so much woe. She did not exult—she did not scream or laugh with her usual mad mirth, but a great change came over her face, and in a low plaintive tone she said,—
“Where am I—is this my wedding-day—what has happened?” She then clasped her head with her hands, and appeared to be trying to think—reason had returned, but it was to herald death.