“Fly, Captain, fly!” vociferated Blueskin; “I shan't be able to keep these devils down. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you.”
“Come along!” cried Jack, darting through the door. “The key's on the outside—quick! quick!”
Instantly alive to this chance, Blueskin broke away. Two shots were fired at him by Jonathan; one of which passed through his hat, and the other through the fleshy part of his arm; but he made good his retreat. The door was closed—locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs.
“Hell's curses!” roared Jonathan. “They'll escape. Not a moment is to be lost.”
So saying, he took hold of a ring in the floor, and disclosed a flight of steps, down which he hurried, followed by the janizaries. This means of communication instantly brought them to the lobby. But Jack and his companion were already gone.
Jonathan threw open the street-door. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. Jonathan looked in that direction, and beheld the fugitives riding off in triumph.
“To-night it is their turn,” said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. “To-morrow it will be mine.”