He ran to the window, cast it open, and with the most astonishing skill and agility, squeezed himself through the opening, my grandfather and all; and the roof being well within his reach, he first laid the picture on the tiles, then drew himself up after it, and showed the cleanest pair of heels to the law as ever I saw. And I was so taken with the ready wit and contrivance of the rogue, that although I had the cocked pistol pressed to my temple, I could not pull the trigger for the life of me. For I stood all a-shake with very laughter, so that the cold muzzle of the weapon tapped now against my forehead, now against my nose, now against my cheekbone, till I vow it was a miracle the hammer did not descend. But in the middle of all this the door was tried and shaken, followed by a fierce tap on the panel, and then came the clear tones of a woman. "Open--open the door. Jack, it is I!" At the sound of that voice the pistol fell from my hands altogether. Striking the carpet with a thud, it exploded under my feet and knocked a great hole in the wainscot. For an instant the room was full of smoke, gunpowder, and a mighty noise; but the moment I recovered my courage I unfastened the door and confronted the cause of it--Cynthia Carew! She too was the victim of a not unnatural bewilderment, and as pale as linen. "Ods sputterkins!" she cried. "What a taking you have put me in! I am all of a twitter. Whose brains have you spilt? Not your own, I'll warrant me, for you never had any. Give me a kiss now, and get me some ratafia to compose me, and we'll let it pass." "Cynthia," I gasped, but giving her the first of these requisites, "how came you here, in heaven's name? "Ratafia!" she cried, "ratafia, or I perish." "There's never a drop in the place," says I. "No, nor cherry-brandy, nor aromatic vinegar neither." "Another kiss then," says Cynthia, pressing her white cheek against me, and casting her arms about my neck. I led her within and set her down on the couch. She bore all the evidences of having made a long journey. So far from being dressed in the modishness that was wont to charm St. James's Park, she was covered by a long, dun-coloured cloak, wore a country hat, if I'm a judge of 'em, in which the feathers were crumpled; her shoes were muddy, and she carried a strange look of fear and uneasiness that I had never seen about her before. I procured a clean glass and filled it with wine from the last bottle and made her drain it, for she looked so pale and overborne. "Now," says I, "how came you here? and what brings you?" "Oh, Jack," says she, "I am run away." She suddenly broke forth into a flood of tears. "The devil you are!" says I. "Yes," says she, sobbing as though her heart would break, "and I'm not sorry neither." "You wouldn't confess it an you were," says I. "No, I wouldn't," she sobbed.