The prisoners were at once removed, to be hanged the next day but one. Dicky, handcuffed to a constable, like his fellow-prisoners, was led down the gloomy stairs, between lines of curious persons; some denouncing him, others pitying his youth and supposed misguided conduct. Arrived at the great door leading into the street, he was put into a hackney coach, with another constable on the other side of him.
The night had fallen, and with it had come a death-like fog, which wrapped the great city. The coachman could but feel his way along the dismal streets, faintly lighted at a few points by oil lamps. Dicky was perfectly composed and cheerful, and was talking of Egremont with the constable to whom he was handcuffed, when suddenly a scuffling of hoofs was heard, the coach started off violently, rocking from side to side, cries arose,—the horses had bolted.
“Keep cool, sir,” said the man on his left to Dicky; to which Dicky replied, smiling,—
“Keep cool yourself, my man. I am to die on the day after to-morrow, anyhow; surely there is no occasion for me to be alarmed.”
The horses were now tearing along the stony street. At a sharp turn there was a cry, and a dark object whirled from the box on to the ground. It was the coachman. The horses, now quite free from restraint, rushed on madly, and the next thing came a shock, a crash, shrieks, the trampling of many horses; the hackney coach had dashed full into a chariot and six, with several gentlemen inside of it. Dicky felt a violent blow on the head, a sudden wrench, a falling to the ground. There was a plunging of horses, groans and cries of pain, many persons running together, some one calling for a lantern. In the midst of it he felt himself free from his companion. He scrambled to his feet and staggered instinctively out of the mêlée. He found himself leaning against the corner of a wall. There was much confusion; one person in the chariot was killed, and one of the constables was shrieking with pain. Dicky recognized the man’s voice. A crowd had collected in two minutes; and then the cry arose,—
“Where is the prisoner?”
That one word restored to Dicky Egremont his strength and his senses. He turned instantly, and fled through the darkness.
He ran until he was breathless, and then, stopping for a moment to listen, heard not a step behind him, and looking before him he saw that he was on the very brink of the black river. Looming up before him were ghostly hulks and shadowy masts and spars of ships, with lanterns twinkling feebly. He looked about him, and seeing not a soul in sight, fell upon his knees, crying,—
“I thank Thee, O my Father, for Thy protection so far; but if Thou hast ordained that I should suffer death for Thy sake, I ardently accept Thy will.”
Then, rising to his feet, he walked rapidly on, keeping close to the river bank. He met few persons, and those he easily concealed himself from in the dense and overhanging fog.