But it was for this that Vytal waited. His plan concerning the girl’s safety being now successfully executed, left him free to act entirely for himself. He saw the folly of attempting to hold out longer against so great odds, with no hope of an actual victory. His strength, although not yet seriously impaired, must inevitably sooner or later be exhausted, whereas his opponents could harbor their own by alternately falling back to rest and regain their breath while others in turn kept him occupied. With this realization, Vytal set his back against the door, seeking to open it and enter the shop, but the latch held it against him. He dared not call to Gammer Watkins for fear of betraying his plan of escape to his adversaries, and so, to their amazement, with not a trace of warning he flung the poniard from his left hand into the face of St. Magil, and, darting that hand behind him, lifted the latch. Instantly he was within the shop, followed by Gorm, Frazer, and as many of the throng as could make their way with a headlong rush after him. They were now like hounds lusting for the blood of a stag at bay, excepting two among the foremost to enter, whether they would or not—namely, the terrified breeches-maker and the watchman, who, lanthorn in hand, had witnessed the contest with a gaping interest instead of seeking to end it as the law demanded. From the shop’s entrance straight to its rear wall ran a dark passage, at the end of which a window opened high above the Thames. Beside this passage a narrow stairway led to one or two upper chambers. Mounting quickly to a step midway on the staircase, the breeches-maker was followed by many others, who, eager to gain view of so desperate a conflict and to see the final harrying of the prey, pulled one another down from the coveted vantage-point, trampling on the weaker ones that fell. The watchman, gathering up his long gown, had succeeded in arriving at the breeches-maker’s side, thanks to his official superiority, and now, as he held his lanthorn out at arm’s-length over the passage, the dim light through its horn screens fell upon Vytal and others in the hallway, who, headed by Gorm and Frazer, were pressing their game with redoubled fury. The staircase groaned and creaked beneath its trampling burden, the house seeming to echo the clash and whisper of steel, while now and again a bitter oath rang out above the varied clamor. For the rage of Vytal’s enemies only increased as it became evident that the number of those capable of direct attack was necessarily limited by the narrow passage. Thus he still remained unscathed. Assuming again the defensive until he had fallen back to a spot immediately beneath the watchman’s overhanging light, he suddenly struck upward with his rapier, and, knocking the lanthorn from its holder’s grasp, brought to the shop utter darkness save for a glimmer of starlight that shone faintly through the rear window.