just beneath the shadow of the church of Allhallowes the Less.

Frederick had the paint pot in his hand, and he traced a fine red
cross upon the door, all the while making his ribald jests upon the
old woman within, he and his companions alike, far too drunk with
wine and unholy mirth to have eyes or ears for what was happening
close beside them. They did not hear the sound of an opening window
just above them. They did not see a nightcapped head poked forth,
the great frilled cap surrounding a small, wizened, but
keenly-courageous face, in which the eyes were glittering like
points of fire.

None of them saw this. None of them heeded, and the head was for a
moment silently withdrawn. Then it was again cautiously protruded,
and the next minute there descended on the head of Frederick a
black hot mass of tar and bitumen. It scalded his face, it blinded
his eyes. It choked and almost poisoned him by its vaporous
pungency. It matted itself in his voluminous periwig, and plastered
it down to his shoulders; it clotted his lace frills, and ran in
filthy rivulets down his smart clothes. In a word, it rendered him
in a moment a disgusting and helpless object, unable to see or
hear, almost unable to breathe, and quite unable to rid himself of
the sticky, loathsome mass in which he had suddenly become encased.

Then from the window above came a shrill, jeering cry:

"To your task, bold Scourers--to your task! Scour your own fine
friend and comrade. Scour him well, for he will need it. Scour him
from head to foot. A pest upon you, young villains! I would every
citizen in London would serve you the same!"