"Saved—saved!" he exclaimed.
Then, placing his hand over, he felt for the ivy; then he got over, and hung by the coping-stone, in a perilous position, till he found a spot on which he could rest his foot, and then he grasped the ivy as low down as he could, and thus he lowered himself a short way, till he came to where the ivy was stronger and more secure to the wall, as the upper part was very dangerous with his weight attached to it.
The mob came on, very sure of having Sir Francis Varney in their power, and they did not hurry on so violently, as their position was dangerous at that hour of the night.
"Easy, boys, easy," was the cry. "The bird is our own; he can't get away, that's very certain."
They, however, came on, and took no time about it hardly; but what was their amazement and rage at finding he had disappeared.
"Where is he?" was the universal inquiry, and "I don't know," an almost universal answer.
There was a long pause, while they searched around; but they saw no vestige of the object of their search.
"There's no trap door open," remarked one; "and I don't think he could have got in at any one."
"Perhaps, finding he could not get away, he has taken the desperate expedient of jumping over, and committing suicide, and so escape the doom he ought to be subjected to."
"Probably he has; but then we can run a stake through him and burn him all the same."