By the thief-taker's command, the boat was then rowed toward a muddy inlet, which has received in more recent times the name of Execution Dock. As soon as she reached this spot, Wild sprang ashore, and was joined by several persons,—among whom was Quilt Arnold, leading a horse by the bridle,—he hastened down the stairs to meet him. A coach was also in attendance, at a little distance.
Sir Rowland, who had continued absorbed in thought, with his eyes fixed upon the sloop, as she made her way slowly down the river, disembarked more leisurely.
“At length I am my own master,” murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand.
“Not so, Sir Rowland,” returned Jonathan; “you are my prisoner.”
“How!” ejaculated Trenchard, starting back and drawing his sword.
“You are arrested for high treason,” rejoined Wild, presenting a pistol at his head, while he drew forth a parchment,—“here is my warrant.”
“Traitor!” cried Sir Rowland—“damned—double-dyed traitor!”
“Away with him,” vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could utter another word,—“first to Mr. Walpole, and then to Newgate. And now, Quilt,” he continued, addressing the janizary, who approached him with the horse, “fly to St. Giles's round-house, and if, through the agency of that treacherous scoundrel, Terry O'Flaherty, whom I've put in my Black List, old Wood should have found his way there, and have been detained by Sharpies as I directed, you may release him. I don't care how soon he learns that he has lost his adopted son. When I've escorted you proud fool to his new quarters, I'll proceed to the Mint and look after Jack Sheppard.”
With this, he mounted his steed and rode off.