"Two hundred guineas I get out of this, you cursed rebel highwayman, besides the pleasure of seeing you wear hemp--and that's worth a hundred more, sink my soul to hell if it isn't." "Your soul is sunk there long ago, and this blackguard job sends you one circle lower in the Inferno, Catchpoll Craven," said a sneering voice behind him. Craven swung on his heel in a fury, but Volney's easy manner--and perhaps the reputation of his small sword too--damped the mettle of his courage. He drew back with a curse, whispered a word into the ear of the nearest bailiff, and shouldered his way into the crowd, from the midst of which he watched us with a sneer. "And what mad folly, may I ask, brought you back to London a-courting the gallows?" inquired Volney of me. "Haven't you heard that Malcolm Macleod is taken?" I asked. "And did you come to exchange places with him? On my soul you're madder than I thought. Couldn't you trust me to see that my future brother-in-law comes to no harm without ramming your own head down the lion's throat? Faith, I think Craven has the right of it: the hempen noose is yawning for such fools as you." The bailiffs took me to the New Prison and thrust me into an underground cell about the walls of which moisture hung in beads. Like the rest of the prisoners I was heavily ironed by day and fastened down to the floor by a staple at night. One hour in the day we were suffered to go into the yard for exercise and to be inspected and commented upon by the great number of visitors who were allowed access to the prison. On the second day of my arrival I stood blinking in the strong sunlight, having just come up from my dark cell, when two prisoners shuffled across the open to me, their fetters dragging on the ground. Conceive my great joy at finding Creagh and Donald Roy fellow inmates of New Prison with me. Indeed Captain Roy occupied the very next cell to mine. I shall not weary you with any account of our captivity except to state that the long confinement in my foul cell sapped my health. I fell victim to agues and fevers. Day by day I grew worse until I began to think that 'twas a race between disease and the gallows. Came at last my trial, and prison attendants haled me away to the courts. Poor Leath, white to the lips, was being hustled out of the room just as I entered. "By Heaven, Montagu, these whigs treat us like dogs," he cried passionately to me. "They are not content with our lives, but must heap foul names and infamy upon us." The guards hurried us apart before I could answer. I asked one of them what the verdict had been in Leath's case, and the fellow with an evil laugh made a horrid gesture with his hands that confirmed my worst fears.