As the window banged to behind them, a figure loomed up out of the night--two figures, more. I sprang to one side; but they were too quick for me. Someone flung an old flour-sack over my head. Before I was ready to struggle I was lying flat on the pavement, with a man upon my chest. “It's him,” said a voice. “You young rip, where are the letters?” “What letters?” I said, struggling, choking against the folds of the sack. “Rip up his boots,” said another. “Dig him with a knife if he won't answer.” “Bring him in to the Colonel,” said the first. “I've got no letters,” I said. “Lift him up quick,” said the man who had suggested the knife. “In with him. Here's the watch.” “Quick, boys,” the leader said. “We mustn't be caught at this game.” Steps sounded somewhere in the square. Hearing them, I squealed with all my strength, hoping that somebody would come. “Choke him,” said one of the men. I gave one more loud squeal before they jammed the sack on my mouth. To my joy, the feet broke into a run. They were the feet of the watch, coming to my rescue. “Up with him,” said the leader among my captors. “Quick, in to the Colonel with him.” “No, no! Drop it. I'm off. Here's the watch,” cried the other hurriedly. They let me drop on to the pavement after half lifting me. In five seconds more they were scattering to shelter. As I rose to my feet, flinging off the flour-sack, I found myself in the midst of the city watch, about a dozen men, all armed, whose leader carried a lantern. The windows of the great inn were open; people were thronging on to the balcony to see what the matter was; citizens came to their house-doors. At that moment, Mr. Jermyn appeared. The captain of the guard was asking questions in Dutch. The guardsmen were peering at my face in the lantern light. Mr. Jermyn questioned me quickly as to what had happened. He interpreted my tale to the guard. I was his servant, he told them. I had been attacked by unknown robbers, some of whom, at least, were English. One of them had tried to stifle me with a flour-sack, which, on examination under the lantern, proved to be the sack of Robert Harling, Corn-miller, Eastry. Goodness knows how it came to be there; for ship's flour travels in cask. Mr. Jermyn gave an address, where we could be found if any of the villains were caught; but he added that it was useless to expect me to identify any of them, since the attack had been made in the dark, with the victim securely blindfolded. He gave the leader of the men some money. The guard moved away to look for the culprits (long before in hiding, one would think), while Mr. Jermyn took me away with him.