"Stand fast all!" sounded the deep voice of Arnold Biederman along their little body. "Where is Rudolph?—Save lives, but take none.—Why, how now, Arthur Philipson! stand fast, I say."
"I cannot stand fast," said Arthur, who was in the act of leaving the ranks. "I must seek my father in the dungeons; they may be slaying him in this confusion while I stand idle here."
"By our Lady of Einsiedlen, you say well," answered the Landamman; "that I should have forgot my noble guest! I will help thee to search for him, Arthur—the affray seems well-nigh ended.—Ho, there, Sir Banneret, worthy Adam Zimmerman, my good friend Nicholas Bonstetten, keep our men standing firm—Have nothing to do with this affray, but leave the men of Bâle to answer their own deeds. I return in a few minutes."
So saying, he hurried after Arthur Philipson, whose recollection conducted him, with sufficient accuracy, to the head of the dungeon stairs. There they met an ill-looking man clad in a buff jerkin, who bore at his girdle a bunch of rusted keys, which intimated the nature of his calling.
"Show me the prison of the English merchant," said Arthur Philipson, "or thou diest by my hand!"
"Which of them desire you to see?" answered the official;—"the old man, or the young one?"
"The old," said young Philipson. "His son has escaped thee."
"Enter here then, gentlemen," said the jailer, undoing the spring-bolt of a heavy door.
At the upper end of the apartment lay the man they came to seek for, who was instantly raised from the ground, and loaded with their embraces.
"My dear father!"—"My worthy guest!" said his son and friend at the same moment, "how fares it with you?"