“Never, by Heavens!” I muttered to myself,—“Never shall a Clifford, no matter how fallen, die such a felon-death! The grave is open for me; what matters it whether it hide me now, or in a brief space after? Come, man thyself, Edward Clifford, for a last effort—and die!”
Nothing remained but to convey me before a magistrate for committal.
The crowd retired; the officers took me away in custody. My passive conduct throughout, led them to set me down a heartless wretch, with whom hope was at an end; and mine seemed
“The composure of settled despair,”
which enables the criminal to meet his doom in sullen apathy. How little they suspected the dark thoughts which then occupied my mind, or the deadly purpose which I meditated!
An old watchman held my collar in his feeble grasp, and two or three others surrounded me. The mob kept generally in advance of us, to enable them to frequently indulge their curiosity with a view of the criminal. Before we had moved a dozen paces, I made a sudden spring, shook off the man who held me, overturned another in my rear, and started off, at headlong speed, to gain the bridge which was immediately contiguous.
A wild outcry announced my escape; an instant pursuit succeeded. The mob were the only persons I had to fear; for the old men who watched the city then, wrapped in their great coats, and encumbered with poles and lanterns, were incapable of rapid movements. Several persons, however, kept me well in sight; they little knew that death, and not deliverance, was what I aimed at; and they raised a cry to warn the passengers who were approaching in the opposite direction. I saw several men draw themselves across the bridge to bar my farther progress. I stopped, leaped upon the balustrade—“Seize him!” cried a dozen voices—they were the last words I heard—I muttered one brief adjuration to Heaven to pardon the act I was about to commit, closed my eyes, sprang from the battlement, and the waters closed over me!
Mr. Clifford paused. His usual stern composure was unequal to conquer the agitation which the terrible recollections of early imprudence had brought back. A short silence was unbroken, when suddenly the door unclosed, and the dark functionary presented himself, and handed me a letter of most unprepossessing appearance. He announced that the messenger would not leave without an answer—and ill-timed as the interruption was, my uncle signalled me to break the wafer. I obeyed, and communicated to him the contents of the following singular epistle:—
“For Captain Hectur O’Haleran, esquare, or Mister Hartlay, if he’s out.
“Honered Sir,—