“Shoot!” cried Captain Vratz.
And the Polander raised his Blunderbuss and Fired into the lace-covered Bosom of Esquire Thynne.
“Damn your Foreign tricks, I’m murdered!” cried the Englishman; he fell back on the Seat of the Coach and the Polander Turned and Galloped away up St. James Street and Alban Street with the Captain and Stern after him; and the Servant with the Flambeau put a Pursuit on them as far as the Haymarket, then could go no Further; but the Polander had Cast away his Blunderbuss and that the Servant Caught up and carried back to the Mall, where was a Great Press and Mr. Thynne Dying with three bullets in him and the People saying how his Grace of Monmouth had but just left the coach and what a stroke that was, for he might have been Murdered else.
And the three rode to my Lord’s Lodgings in St. Martin’s Lane and asked for him.
“For it may be Well,” said the Captain, “that we ask my Lord to let us Lie at the Swedish Resident’s—”
But when they answered his knock he was told that the Count had gone early that Morning to Windsor wearing a Black Periwig and in a Coat he had borrowed of a Servant. At hearing this news the Captain came back with a Look of Death in his face.
“If he hath Fled to Gravesend—” he said, and They All went Back to the Black Bull and Mounted to the Captain’s Chamber and sat Still and Silly, looking at each other.
“We have trusted You,” said Stern, “and there is your Word to it that we are Safe.”
“I had the Count of Conningsmarke’s Word,” answered the Captain, “but he hath failed me—”
“Will you Fail us?” asked Stern.