Here ensued a silence wherein Sir John made notes in his memorandum and Mr. Bunkle proceeded to concoct that mystery known as “gumboo,” while Sir Hector, puffing his pipe, watched with appreciative expectation. From adjacent tap-room issued the drowsy murmur of neighbourly talk, the clank of pewter, an occasional laugh; but all at once this pleasant clamour was hushed, and Mr. Bunkle, in the act of filling the glasses, paused and stood glancing obliquely towards the open lattice, for upon this unnatural stillness grew an ominous sound, faint at first but swelling ever louder, wilder, more threatening. Sir Hector rose, Sir John closed his memorandum, Mr. Bunkle leant from the window, for now above this ominous sound rose another, the clatter of running feet in desperate flight from the oncoming terror of the “hue and cry.” And then the small chamber seemed full of men who muttered uneasily to each other. “The sojers, Peter!” quoth Mr. Muddle. “’Tis the sojers a-comin’ back again!” “’Tis Jarge!” added Mr. Pursglove dolefully. “’Tis pore Jarge Potter ... runnin’ fur ’is loife.... An’ us caan’t do nowt fur ’ee——” Even as he spoke was the sound of a distant shot. “Not ’ere, ye caan’t!” answered Mr. Bunkle, shaking his head. “So off wi’ ye, lads!” Hereupon the five doors opened, closed, and the three were alone again. “Peter Bunkle,” cried Sir Hector, “Peter—man, though a’ the warld kens I’m no smuggler the noo, yet if Geordie Potter’s taken they shall tak’ me too!” “Nay, Sir Hector, what’ll be the good o’ that?” demurred Mr. Bunkle, following him out into the tap-room. “Whisht, man—hark’ee!” The running feet were much closer now; on they came in wild career, though every now and then they seemed to falter oddly. “B’ the Powers—’e’ll never do it!” cried Mr. Bunkle. “’Ark ’ow ’e runs—he’m wounded!” “Why, then,” exclaimed Sir Hector, and swung open the door, and leapt aside as a man blundered past him, a woeful figure, torn, mired and bloody, who gasped painfully and reeled in his stride. Forthwith Sir Hector clapped to the door, and would have barred it, but Mr. Bunkle stayed him. “No, no, sir!” he cried. “It looks more innocenter open an’, besides, Jarge only wants a minute ... watch ’im!” Upon the wide hearth a fire smouldered, and into and over this fire Mr. Potter staggered; they heard the rattle of a chain within the chimney, a breathless, “Arl roight, Peter!” and Mr. Potter vanished amid sparks and smoke. A moment later the first of his pursuers, lifting musket-butt to batter the stout door, found it ajar and entered, panting, to behold two gentlemen seated in amicable converse upon the wide settle, and Mr. Bunkle deferentially awaiting their orders; whereupon the panting soldier gasped and, gaping, was thrust aside by a panting officer, a ferocious gentleman, plump, peevish and blown, who, perceiving this picture of placid ease, immediately gaped also.