Edmund had, for the moment relaxed his hold, and it was at precisely that same moment that Sir Thomas Staley took hold of the top of the bundle to pull it up. There was but one chance left, and although it promised a little hope of success, he deemed his position desperate enough to warrant him in attempting it. He decided to leap out simultaneously with the withdrawal of the bundle, and, trusting to the confusion his unexpected appearance would create, to escape through the trap-door, and race away for his life. However, when he saw the sole protection which had hidden him from his enemies begin to move away his courage failed him, and he had not sufficient boldness to carry out the plan he had so neatly arranged. Instinctively he threw his arms up to clutch the rope again, but it was too late, it had already passed beyond his reach; there was nothing left to save him. Another moment and his hiding place would be discovered, when----, Sir Thomas missed his footing, and with a gesture of impatience he let the bundle fall again, and turned his back upon it in disgust. It alighted heavily upon the luckless Edmund's shoulders, and it struck him with so much force that almost before he was aware of it, he found himself most uncomfortably doubled up, and tight pinned beneath its weight upon the floor. He could neither free himself nor ease his position without attracting attention, for his arms were tightly wedged underneath him, while his legs had found a resting place between two lots of hay, at a height somewhat above the level of his head. One thing, and one alone, was at his command. He could at least, he thought, remain quietly there, an unwilling eavesdropper, until his persecutors had gone. This he resolved to do; meanwhile he could only submit to the conditions which a series of unfortunate incidents had brought upon him, and listen to the conversation in the hope that some of it, at least, might at some time or other prove profitable to him in the accomplishment of the object he had in view. "How long will they be, mine host?" inquired Sir George, to whom the circumlocution of the stage proved uninteresting indeed. "About two hours, my lord," suavely replied that individual, as he gazed proudly at the brilliant company assembled in the yard below, wondering the while how much they would expend at the inn when the play was over. "Two hours!" Edmund groaned inwardly, but the groan was none the less sincere because it was inaudible. "Two hours!" exclaimed the astonished baron, "then I'm off." Hope again revived within the heart of the prisoner. "Nay, stop, Sir George," interrupted the younger knight; "you cannot see a play like this at any time you choose. Stay awhile and bid me company, and forget your troubles in a stoup of ale." "Aye, I have the best in the town," added the host; "there is nothing like it in all London."