sailors and hirelings of the English squadron set loose to hunt down
the refugees. The shouting became a roar. Then in burst Eli Kirke's
front door. The house was suddenly filled with swearings enough to
cram his blasphemy box to the brim. There was a trampling of feet on
the stairs, followed by the crashing of overturned furniture, and the
rabble had rushed up with neither let nor hindrance and were searching
every room.

Who had turned informer on my uncle? Was I not the only royalist in
the house? Would suspicion fall on me? But questions were put to
flight by a thunderous rapping on the door. It gave as it had been
cardboard, and in tumbled a dozen ruffians with gold-lace doublets,
cockades and clanking swords.

Behind peered Eli Kirke, pale with fear, his eyes asking mine if I
knew. True as eyes can speak, mine told him that I knew as well as he.

"Body o' me! What-a-deuce? Only a little fighting sparrow of a
royalist!" cried a swaggering colt of a fellow in officer's uniform.

"No one here, lad?" demanded a second.

And I saw Eli Kirke close his eyes as in prayer.

"Sir," said I, drawing myself up on my heels, "I don't understand you.
I--am here."

They bellowed a laugh and were tumbling over one another in their haste
up the attic stairs. Then my blood went cold with fear, for the memory
of that poor old man going to the shambles of London flashed back.