He hurried along the subterranean, which he knew so well,--hurried along towards the spiral stair-case, wondering whether he should be enabled to effect his escape, yet almost reckless and desperate as to what might become of him, now that his savage vengeance was accomplished. He ascended the stone steps--he entered the room which had for years and years served him as a bed-chamber, before he had been compelled to dispose of the house to Lord Ellingham. He passed into the laboratory: and as yet he had proceeded without interruption. Joy! joy! he should escape yet--the adjoining room, now fitted up as a handsome parlour, was likewise untenanted at the moment:--joy! joy! he is descending the stair-case leading to the hall! Is it possible that he will escape? Fortune seems to favour the diabolical murderer; and his hand is now upon the latch of the front-door--he stands as it were once more upon the threshold of that great world which is so wide and has so many channels for the machinations of the wicked! The house seems deserted--not a questioning voice falls upon his ear,--not the step of a human foot, save his own, interrupts the silence of the place! Yes--it appears as if escape be now a certainty,--escape for him who dared not hope for it, and did not even think of it, when intent on the all-absorbing scheme of his vengeance! And now the front-door opens to his touch: but--ah! he has blood upon his hands--the blood that had flowed from the neck of the murdered Jewess. He starts back--he hesitates for a moment,--but only for a moment: Old Death is not the man to remain long uncertain how to proceed in such a strait! Thrusting his hands--his gore-stained hands--into his pockets, the demon-hearted monster issues as coolly and calmly from the house as if it were his own and he had nothing to fear. The fresh air of heaven--untasted by him for ten long weeks--comes gushing upon his face: he is free--he is free! “Ah!” is the hasty ejaculation which now falls on his ear: he looks around--a man is bounding, flying towards him--and in another instant he is in the grasp of the Blackamoor. A short and desperate struggle takes place; and a crowd immediately gathers near--for the Sessions are being held at Hicks’s Hall, on Clerkenwell Green, so that the neighbourhood presents the bustling appearance usual on such occasions. “Seize him--hold him!” yells forth Old Death, as his powerful opponent hurls him towards the house-door, which the miscreant had not closed behind him. “He is a mad-man--escaped from a lunatic asylum!” exclaimed the Blackamoor, horrible apprehensions filling his soul relative to the Jewess--for his eyes had caught sight of the blood upon Old Death’s hands. “No--no--I am not a mad-man!” shrieked out the latter. “Seize him--hold him, I say:--_he has escaped the scaffold--he is_ TOM RAIN, _the highwayman_!”