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Mrs. Sheppard’s habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler’s Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George’s Fields. The neighbouring houses were tenanted by the lowest order of insolvent traders, thieves, mendicants, and other worthless and nefarious characters, who fled thither to escape from their creditors, or to avoid the punishment due to their different offenses; for we may observe that the Old Mint, although it had been divested of some of its privileges as a sanctuary by a recent statute passed in the reign of William the Third, still presented a safe asylum to the debtor, and even continued to do so until the middle of the reign of George the First, when the crying nature of the evil called loudly for a remedy, and another and more sweeping enactment entirely took away its immunities. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles’s and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn — on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. Suffolk House, as Brandon’s palace was denominated, was subsequently converted into a mint by his royal brother-in-law, Henry the Eighth; and, after its demolition, and the removal of the place of coinage to the Tower, the name was still continued to the district in which it had been situated.

Old and dilapidated, the widow’s domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. The roof was partially untiled; the chimneys were tottering; the side-walls bulged, and were supported by a piece of timber propped against the opposite house; the glass in most of the windows was broken, and its place supplied with paper; while, in some cases, the very frames of the windows had been destroyed, and the apertures were left free to the airs of heaven. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded.

It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. Sheppard was enabled to take possession of the premises. In a fit of despondency, superinduced by drunkenness, he made away with himself; and when the body was discovered, after a lapse of some months, such was the impression produced by the spectacle — such the alarm occasioned by the crazy state of the building, and, above all, by the terror inspired by strange and unearthly noises heard during the night, which were, of course, attributed to the spirit of the suicide, that the place speedily enjoyed the reputation of being haunted, and was, consequently, entirely abandoned. In this state Mrs. Sheppard found it; and, as no one opposed her, she at once took up her abode there; nor was she long in discovering that the dreaded sounds proceeded from the nocturnal gambols of a legion of rats.

A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return.

As Mrs. Sheppard did not make her appearance quite so soon as he expected, the carpenter became a little fidgetty, and, having succeeded in tranquillizing the child, he thought proper to walk so far down the entry as would enable him to reconnoitre the upper windows of the house. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. This light did not remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes of the casement. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor.

Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. This individual apparently met with some impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood stood.

Uttering a few inarticulate ejaculations — for he was completely out of breath — the fugitive placed a bundle in the arms of the carpenter, and, regardless of the consternation he excited in the breast of that personage, who was almost stupified with astonishment, he began to divest himself of a heavy horseman’s cloak, which he threw over Wood’s shoulder, and, drawing his sword, seemed to listen intently for the approach of his pursuers.

The appearance of the new-comer was extremely prepossessing; and, after his trepidation had a little subsided, Wood began to regard him with some degree of interest. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern.

At this juncture, a cry burst from the child, who, nearly smothered by the weight imposed upon him, only recovered the use of his lungs as Wood altered the position of the bundle. The stranger turned his head at the sound.

“By Heaven!” cried he in a tone of surprise, “you have an infant there?”

“To be sure I have,” replied Wood, angrily; for, finding that the intentions of the stranger were pacific, so far as he was concerned, he thought he might safely venture on a slight display of spirit. “It’s very well you haven’t crushed the poor little thing to death with this confounded clothes’-bag. But some people have no consideration.”

“That child may be the means of saving me,” muttered the stranger, as if struck by a new idea: “I shall gain time by the expedient. Do you live here?”

“Not exactly,” answered the carpenter.

“No matter. The door is open, so it is needless to ask leave to enter. Ha!” exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded at no great distance along the thoroughfare, “not a moment is to be lost. Give me that precious charge,” he added, snatching the bundle from Wood. “If I escape, I will reward you. Your name?”

“Owen Wood,” replied the carpenter; “I’ve no reason to be ashamed of it. And now, a fair exchange, Sir. Yours?”

The stranger hesitated. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses.

“My name is Darrell,” said the fugitive hastily. “But, if you are discovered, answer no questions, as you value your life. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. Remember! not a word!”

So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood’s shoulders, dashed the lantern to the ground, and extinguished the light. A moment afterwards, the door was closed and bolted, and the carpenter found himself alone.

“Mercy on us!” cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. “The Dutchman was right, after all.”

This exclamation had scarcely escaped him, when the discharge of a pistol was heard, and a bullet whizzed past his ears.

“I have him!” cried a voice in triumph.

A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. This person was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux.

“Mur — der!” roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled.

“Damnation!” exclaimed one of the leaders of the party in a furious tone, snatching a torch from an attendant, and throwing its light full upon the face of the carpenter; “this is not the villain, Sir Cecil.”

“So I find, Rowland,” replied the other, in accents of deep disappointment, and at the same time relinquishing his grasp. “I could have sworn I saw him enter this passage. And how comes his cloak on this knave’s shoulders?”

“It is his cloak, of a surety,” returned Rowland “Harkye, sirrah,” continued he, haughtily interrogating Wood; “where is the person from whom you received this mantle?”

“Throttling a man isn’t the way to make him answer questions,” replied the carpenter, doggedly. “You’ll get nothing out of me, I can promise you, unless you show a little more civility.”

“We waste time with this fellow,” interposed Sir Cecil, “and may lose the object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this building. Let us search it.”

Just then, the infant began to sob piteously.

“Hist!” cried Rowland, arresting his comrade. “Do you hear that! We are not wholly at fault. The dog-fox cannot be far off, since the cub is found.”

With these words, he tore the mantle from Wood’s back, and, perceiving the child, endeavoured to seize it. In this attempt he was, however, foiled by the agility of the carpenter, who managed to retreat to the door, against which he placed his back, kicking the boards vigorously with his heel.

“Joan! Joan!” vociferated he, “open the door, for God’s sake, or I shall be murdered, and so will your babby! Open the door quickly, I say.”

“Knock him on the head,” thundered Sir Cecil, “or we shall have the watch upon us.”

“No fear of that,” rejoined Rowland: “such vermin never dare to show themselves in this privileged district. All we have to apprehend is a rescue.”

The hint was not lost upon Wood. He tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland.

“Another such attempt,” said the latter, “and you are a dead man. Yield up the babe, and I pledge my word you shall remain unmolested.”

“I will yield it to no one but its mother,” answered Wood.

“‘Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?” cried Rowland fiercely. “Give me the child, or —”

As he spoke the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Sheppard staggered forward. She looked paler than ever; but her countenance, though bewildered, did not exhibit the alarm which might naturally have been anticipated from the strange and perplexing scene presented to her view.

“Take it,” cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; “take it, and fly.”

Mrs. Sheppard put out her arms mechanically. But before the child could be committed to her care, it was wrested from the carpenter by Rowland.

“These people are all in league with him,” cried the latter. “But don’t wait for me, Sir Cecil. Enter the house with your men. I’ll dispose of the brat.”

This injunction was instantly obeyed. The knight and his followers crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them.

“Davies,” said Rowland, delivering the babe, with a meaning look, to his attendant.

“I understand, Sir,” replied Davies, drawing a little aside. And, setting down the link, he proceeded deliberately to untie his cravat.

“My God! will you see your child strangled before your eyes, and not so much as scream for help?” said Wood, staring at the widow with a look of surprise and horror. “Woman, your wits are fled!”

And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, “I can’t find the key.”

“Devil take the key!” ejaculated Wood. “They’re about to murder your child —your child, I tell you! Do you comprehend what I say, Joan?”

“I’ve hurt my head,” replied Mrs. Sheppard, pressing her hand to her temples.

And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek.

At this moment, Davies, who had completed his preparations, extinguished the torch.

“It’s all over,” groaned Wood, “and perhaps it’s as well her senses are gone. However, I’ll make a last effort to save the poor little creature, if it costs me my life.”

And, with this generous resolve, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Arrest! arrest! help! help!” seconding the words with a shrill and peculiar cry, well known at the time to the inhabitants of the quarter in which it was uttered.

In reply to this summons a horn was instantly blown at the corner of the street.

“Arrest!” vociferated Wood. “Mint! Mint!”

“Death and hell!” cried Rowland, making a furious pass at the carpenter, who fortunately avoided the thrust in the darkness; “will nothing silence you?”

“Help!” ejaculated Wood, renewing his cries. “Arrest!”

“Jigger closed!” shouted a hoarse voice in reply. “All’s bowman, my covey. Fear nothing. We’ll be upon the ban-dogs before they can shake their trotters!”

And the alarm was sounded more loudly than ever.

Another horn now resounded from the further extremity of the thoroughfare; this was answered by a third; and presently a fourth, and more remote blast, took up the note of alarm. The whole neighbourhood was disturbed. A garrison called to arms at dead of night on the sudden approach of the enemy, could not have been more expeditiously, or effectually aroused. Rattles were sprung; lanterns lighted, and hoisted at the end of poles; windows thrown open; doors unbarred; and, as if by magic, the street was instantaneously filled with a crowd of persons of both sexes, armed with such weapons as came most readily to hand, and dressed in such garments as could be most easily slipped on. Hurrying in the direction of the supposed arrest, they encouraged each other with shouts, and threatened the offending parties with their vengeance.

Regardless as the gentry of the Mint usually were (for, indeed, they had become habituated from their frequent occurrence to such scenes,) of any outrages committed in their streets; deaf, as they had been, to the recent scuffle before Mrs. Sheppard’s door, they were always sufficiently on the alert to maintain their privileges, and to assist each other against the attacks of their common enemy — the sheriff’s officer. It was only by the adoption of such a course (especially since the late act of suppression, to which we have alluded,) that the inviolability of the asylum could be preserved. Incursions were often made upon its territories by the functionaries of the law; sometimes attended with success, but more frequently with discomfiture; and it rarely happened, unless by stratagem or bribery, that (in the language of the gentlemen of the short staff) an important caption could be effected. In order to guard against accidents or surprises, watchmen, or scouts, (as they were styled,) were stationed at the three main outlets of the sanctuary ready to give the signal in the manner just described: bars were erected, which, in case of emergency; could be immediately stretched across the streets: doors were attached to the alleys; and were never opened without due precautions; gates were affixed to the courts, wickets to the gates, and bolts to the wickets. The back windows of the houses (where any such existed) were strongly barricaded, and kept constantly shut; and the fortress was, furthermore, defended by high walls and deep ditches in those quarters where it appeared most exposed. There was also a Maze, (the name is still retained in the district,) into which the debtor could run, and through the intricacies of which it was impossible for an officer to follow him, without a clue. Whoever chose to incur the risk of so doing might enter the Mint at any hour; but no one was suffered to depart without giving a satisfactory account of himself, or producing a pass from the Master. In short, every contrivance that ingenuity could devise was resorted to by this horde of reprobates to secure themselves from danger or molestation. Whitefriars had lost its privileges; Salisbury Court and the Savoy no longer offered places of refuge to the debtor; and it was, therefore, doubly requisite that the Island of Bermuda (as the Mint was termed by its occupants) should uphold its rights, as long as it was able to do so.

Mr. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle. Aware that not a moment was to be lost, if he meant to render any effectual assistance to the child, he ceased shouting, and defending himself in the best way he could from the attacks of Rowland, by whom he was closely pressed, forced his way, in spite of all opposition, to Davies, and dealt him a blow on the head with such good will that, had it not been for the intervention of the wall, the ruffian must have been prostrated. Before he could recover from the stunning effects of the blow, Wood possessed himself of the child: and, untying the noose which had been slipped round its throat, had the satisfaction of hearing it cry lustily.

At this juncture, Sir Cecil and his followers appeared at the threshold.

“He has escaped!” exclaimed the knight; “we have searched every corner of the house without finding a trace of him.”

“Back!” cried Rowland. “Don’t you hear those shouts? Yon fellow’s clamour has brought the whole horde of jail-birds and cut-throats that infest this place about our ears. We shall be torn in pieces if we are discovered. Davies!” he added, calling to the attendant, who was menacing Wood with a severe retaliation, “don’t heed him; but, if you value a whole skin, come into the house, and bring that woman with you. She may afford us some necessary information.”

Davies reluctantly complied. And, dragging Mrs. Sheppard, who made no resistance, along with him, entered the house, the door of which was instantly shut and barricaded.

A moment afterwards, the street was illumined by a blaze of torchlight, and a tumultuous uproar, mixed with the clashing of weapons, and the braying of horns, announced the arrival of the first detachment of Minters.

Mr. Wood rushed instantly to meet them.

“Hurrah!” shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head. “Saved!”

“Ay, ay, it’s all bob, my covey! You’re safe enough, that’s certain!” responded the Minters, baying, yelping, leaping, and howling around him like a pack of hounds when the huntsman is beating cover; “but, where are the lurchers?”

“Who?” asked Wood.

“The traps!” responded a bystander.

“The shoulder-clappers!” added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the party, had unintentionally substituted her husband’s nether habiliments for her own petticoats.

“The ban-dogs!” thundered a tall man, whose stature and former avocations had procured him the nickname of “The long drover of the Borough market.” “Where are they?”

“Ay, where are they?” chorussed the mob, flourishing their various weapons, and flashing their torches in the air; “we’ll starve ’em out.”

Mr. Wood trembled. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to allay. He knew not what to say, or what to do; and his confusion was increased by the threatening gestures and furious looks of the ruffians in his immediate vicinity.

“I don’t understand you, gentlemen,” stammered he, at length.

“What does he say?” roared the long drover.

“He says he don’t understand flash,” replied the lady in gentleman’s attire.

“Cease your confounded clutter!” said a young man, whose swarthy visage, seen in the torchlight, struck Wood as being that of a Mulatto. “You frighten the cull out of his senses. It’s plain he don’t understand our lingo; as, how should he? Take pattern by me;” and as he said this he strode up to the carpenter, and, slapping him on the shoulder, propounded the following questions, accompanying each interrogation with a formidable contortion of countenance. “Curse you! Where are the bailiffs? Rot you! have you lost your tongue? Devil seize you! you could bawl loud enough a moment ago!”

“Silence, Blueskin!” interposed an authoritative voice, immediately behind the ruffian. “Let me have a word with the cull!”

“Ay! ay!” cried several of the bystanders, “let Jonathan kimbaw the cove. He’s got the gift of the gab.”

The crowd accordingly drew aside, and the individual, in whose behalf the movement had been made immediately stepped forward. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. A physiognomist, indeed, would have likened him to that crafty animal, and it must be owned the general formation of his features favoured such a comparison. The nose was long and sharp, the chin pointed, the forehead broad and flat, and connected, without any intervening hollow, with the eyelid; the teeth when displayed, seemed to reach from ear to ear. Then his beard was of a reddish hue, and his complexion warm and sanguine. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. Certain it was, that the slightest sound aroused him. This astute personage was somewhat under the middle size, but fairly proportioned, inclining rather to strength than symmetry, and abounding more in muscle than in flesh.

It would seem, from the attention which he evidently bestowed upon the hidden and complex machinery of the grand system of villany at work around him, that his chief object in taking up his quarters in the Mint, must have been to obtain some private information respecting the habits and practices of its inhabitants, to be turned to account hereafter.

Advancing towards Wood, Jonathan fixed his keen gray eyes upon him, and demanded, in a stern tone whether the persons who had taken refuge in the adjoining house, were bailiffs.

“Not that I know of,” replied the carpenter, who had in some degree recovered his confidence.

“Then I presume you’ve not been arrested?”

“I have not,” answered Wood firmly.

“I guessed as much. Perhaps you’ll next inform us why you have occasioned this disturbance.”

“Because this child’s life was threatened by the persons you have mentioned,” rejoined Wood.

“An excellent reason, i’ faith!” exclaimed Blueskin, with a roar of surprise and indignation, which was echoed by the whole assemblage. “And so we’re to be summoned from our beds and snug firesides, because a kid happens to squall, eh? By the soul of my grandmother, but this is too good!”

“Do you intend to claim the privileges of the Mint?” said Jonathan, calmly pursuing his interrogations amid the uproar. “Is your person in danger?”

“Not from my creditors,” replied Wood, significantly.

“Will he post the cole? Will he come down with the dues? Ask him that?” cried Blueskin.

“You hear,” pursued Jonathan; “my friend desires to know if you are willing to pay your footing as a member of the ancient and respectable fraternity of debtors?”

“I owe no man a farthing, and my name shall never appear in any such rascally list,” replied Wood angrily. “I don’t see why I should be obliged to pay for doing my duty. I tell you this child would have been strangled. The noose was at its throat when I called for help. I knew it was in vain to cry ‘murder!’ in the Mint, so I had recourse to stratagem.”

“Well, Sir, I must say you deserve some credit for your ingenuity, at all events,” replied Jonathan, repressing a smile; “but, before you put out your foot so far, it would have been quite as prudent to consider how you were to draw it back again. For my own part, I don’t see in what way it is to be accomplished, except by the payment of our customary fees. Do not imagine you can at one moment avail yourself of our excellent regulations (with which you seem sufficiently well acquainted), and the next break them with impunity. If you assume the character of a debtor for your own convenience, you must be content to maintain it for ours. If you have not been arrested, we have been disturbed; and it is but just and reasonable you should pay for occasioning such disturbance. By your own showing you are in easy circumstances — for it is only natural to presume that a man who owes nothing must be in a condition to pay liberally — and you cannot therefore feel the loss of such a trifle as ten guineas.”

However illogical and inconclusive these arguments might appear to Mr. Wood, and however he might dissent from the latter proposition, he did not deem it expedient to make any reply; and the orator proceeded with his harangue amid the general applause of the assemblage.

“I am perhaps exceeding my authority in demanding so slight a sum,” continued Jonathan, modestly, “and the Master of the Mint may not be disposed to let you off so lightly. He will be here in a moment or so, and you will then learn his determination. In the mean time, let me advise you as a friend not to irritate him by a refusal, which would be as useless as vexatious. He has a very summary mode of dealing with refractory persons, I assure you. My best endeavours shall be used to bring you off, on the easy terms I have mentioned.”

“Do you call ten guineas easy terms?” cried Wood, with a look of dismay. “Why, I should expect to purchase the entire freehold of the Mint for less money.”

“Many a man has been glad to pay double the amount to get his head from under the Mint pump,” observed Blueskin, gruffly.

“Let the gentleman take his own course,” said Jonathan, mildly. “I should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might disapprove.”

“Exactly my sentiments,” rejoined Blueskin. “I wouldn’t force him for the world: but if he don’t tip the stivers, may I be cursed if he don’t get a taste of the aqua pompaginis. Let’s have a look at the kinchen that ought to have been throttled,” added he, snatching the child from Wood. “My stars! here’s a pretty lullaby-cheat to make a fuss about — ho! ho!”

“Deal with me as you think proper, gentlemen,” exclaimed Wood; “but, for mercy’s sake don’t harm the child! Let it be taken to its mother.”

“And who is its mother?” asked Jonathan, in an eager whisper. “Tell me frankly, and speak under your breath. Your own safety — the child’s safety — depends upon your candour.”

While Mr. Wood underwent this examination, Blueskin felt a small and trembling hand placed upon his own, and, turning at the summons, beheld a young female, whose features were partially concealed by a loo, or half mask, standing beside him. Coarse as were the ruffian’s notions of feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention. Her figure was, in some measure, hidden by a large scarf, and a deep hood drawn over the head contributed to her disguise; still it was evident, from her lofty bearing, that she had nothing in common, except an interest in their proceedings, with the crew by whom she was surrounded.

Whence she came — who she was — and what she wanted — were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady.

“Hush!” said she, in a low, but agitated voice; “would you earn this purse?”

“I’ve no objection,” replied Blueskin, in a tone intended to be gentle, but which sounded like the murmuring whine of a playful bear. “How much is there in it!”

“It contains gold,” replied the lady; “but I will add this ring.”

“What am I to do to earn it?” asked Blueskin, with a disgusting leer — “cut a throat — or throw myself at your feet — eh, my dear?”

“Give me that child,” returned the lady, with difficulty overcoming the loathing inspired by the ruffian’s familiarity.

“Oh! I see!” replied Blueskin, winking significantly, “Come nearer, or they’ll observe us. Don’t be afraid — I won’t hurt you. I’m always agreeable to the women, bless their kind hearts! Now! slip the purse into my hand. Bravo! — the best cly-faker of ’em all couldn’t have done it better. And now for the fawney — the ring I mean. I’m no great judge of these articles, Ma’am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off paste upon me.”

“It is a diamond,” said the lady, in an agony of distress — “the child!”

“A diamond! Here, take the kid,” cried Blueskin, slipping the infant adroitly under her scarf. “And so this is a diamond,” added he, contemplating the brilliant from the hollow of his hand: “it does sparkle almost as brightly as your ogles. By the by, my dear, I forgot to ask your name — perhaps you’ll oblige me with it now? Hell and the devil! — gone!”

He looked around in vain. The lady had disappeared.