“Stop him! stop!” cried the bookseller, and the officer rushed after him with almost equal speed. Lane after lane, alley after alley, fled Philip; dodging, winding, breathless, panting; and lane after lane, and alley after alley, thickened at his heels the crowd that pursued. The idle and the curious, and the officious,--ragged boys, ragged men, from stall and from cellar, from corner and from crossing, joined in that delicious chase, which runs down young Error till it sinks, too often, at the door of the gaol or the foot of the gallows. But Philip slackened not his pace; he began to distance his pursuers. He was now in a street which they had not yet entered--a quiet street, with few, if any, shops. Before the threshold of a better kind of public-house, or rather tavern, to judge by its appearance, lounged two men; and while Philip flew on, the cry of “Stop him!” had changed as the shout passed to new voices, into “Stop the thief!”--that cry yet howled in the distance. One of the loungers seized him: Philip, desperate and ferocious, struck at him with all his force; but the blow was scarcely felt by that Herculean frame. “Pish!” said the man, scornfully; “I am no spy; if you run from justice, I would help you to a sign-post.” Struck by the voice, Philip looked hard at the speaker. It was the voice of the Accursed Son. “Save me! you remember me?” said the orphan, faintly. “Ah! I think I do; poor lad! Follow me--this way!” The stranger turned within the tavern, passed the hall through a sort of corridor that led into a back yard which opened upon a nest of courts or passages. “You are safe for the present; I will take you where you can tell me all at your ease--See!” As he spoke they emerged into an open street, and the guide pointed to a row of hackney coaches. “Be quick--get in. Coachman, drive fast to ---” Philip did not hear the rest of the direction. Our story returns to Sidney. CHAPTER III. “Nous vous mettrons a couvert, Repondit le pot de fer Si quelque matiere dure Vous menace d’aventure, Entre deux je passerai, Et du coup vous sauverai. ........ Le pot de terre en souffre!”--LA FONTAINE. [“We, replied the Iron Pot, will shield you: should any hard substance menace you with danger, I’ll intervene, and save you from the shock. ......... The Earthen Pot was the sufferer!] “SIDNEY, come here, sir! What have you been at? you have torn your frill into tatters! How did you do this? Come sir, no lies.” “Indeed, ma’am, it was not my fault. I just put my head out of the window to see the coach go by, and a nail caught me here.” “Why, you little plague! you have scratched yourself--you are always in mischief. What business had you to look after the coach?”