From the little stone esplanade, which we have mentioned, lay a winding road up to the gate in the walls, and along that Wilton and his companion turned their steps, keeping silence as they went, with the listening ear bent eagerly to catch a sound.  It was not, indeed, a sense of general apprehension only which made Wilton listen so attentively, for, in truth, he had fancied at the very moment when they were issuing forth from the house, that he had heard a low murmur as if of people talking at some distance.

The same sound had met the ears of the Duke of Berwick, and had produced the same effect; but nothing farther was heard till they reached the gate, and Wilton’s hand was stretched out to open it; when suddenly a loud “Who goes there?” was pronounced on the opposite side of the gate, and half-a-dozen men, who had been lying in the inside of the wall, surrounded the party on all sides.

Several persons now spoke at once.  “Who goes there?” cried one voice again; but at the same time another exclaimed, “Call up the Messenger, call up the Messenger from the other gate.”

These last words gave Wilton some satisfaction, though they were by no means pleasant to the ears of the Duke of Berwick.

The former, however, replied to the challenge, “A friend!” and instantly added, “God save King William!”

“God save King William!” cried one of the voices:  “you cry that on compulsion, I’ve a notion.  Pray, who are you that cry `God save King William’?”

“My name, sir, is Wilton Brown,” replied the young gentleman, “private secretary to the Earl of Byerdale.  Where is the Messenger who came down with me?  Be so good as to call him up immediately.”

“Oh! you are the young gentleman who came down with the Messenger, are you?” said one of the others:  “he was in a great taking lest you should be murdered.”

“It was not his fault,” replied Brown, somewhat bitterly, “that I was not murdered; and if it had not been for Captain Churchill and this other gentleman, who came to my assistance at the risk of their lives, I certainly should have been assassinated by the troop of Jacobites and smugglers amongst whom I fell.”

The Duke of Berwick could not refrain from a low laugh at the description given of the persons whom they had just seen; but Wilton spoke loud again, in order to cover the somewhat ill-timed merriment of his companion, asking of the person who had replied, “Pray, who are you, sir?”

“I am head constable of High Halstow,” replied the man, “and I remained here with our party, while Master Arden and the rest, with the soldiers from Hoo, went round to the other gate.”

“Why did not the cowardly rascal go in by this gate himself,” demanded Wilton, “instead of putting you, my friend, at the post of danger?”

“Ay, it was shabby enough of him,” replied the man; “but I don’t fear anything; not I.”

“I’m afraid, my good fellows, it is too late,” replied Wilton.  “All the gang have got off near an hour ago.  If that stupid Messenger had known what he was about, this affair would have had a different result; but he ran away at the first shot that was fired—­Have you sent for him?” he continued, after a moment’s pause.