The Young Apprentice; or, The Watch-Words of Old London — page 73: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

a @ , THE YOUNG APPRENTICE; OR, Their lives seemed charmed. Lord Raymond’s soldiers were dismayed. A whisper ran through their ranks, and then suddenly they turned and fled. A very short pursuit followed. There was little object in such a proceeding. Lord Raymond was not with them. In fact, nothing had been seen of him since the commencement of the mélée. Accordingly, his hirelings were permitted to make the best of their way towards obtaining their freedom by scrambling over the parapet of the terrace, or dropping from the windows into the street, while the search began in the house. Having now no fear of further molestation, the river boys and the apprentices and the troopers, spread themselves through the building, and began breaking open the doors. One after another the chambers were broken into. | Some of them were fall of chill air and grim darkness, others vomited forth fire and smoke. It was soon seen where the fire originated. It was the torture chamber which had caused the mischief. This chamber, though of atone itaelf, had had, as we have seen, a fierce fire burning in the furnace, and the sparks and flames from this had set fire to some wood lying on the floor, then to the door, the flame rushing upwards. The house, above the basement story, was composed entirely of wood, and, ere those searching could go any higher than the first floor, the whole place was in a blaze. They had but just time to rush out on the river terrace, pursued by the angry flames, when the roof of the building fell in with a crash, sending up myriads of sparks into the summer night. i Oh! my God! my child—my child !” cried the armourer, and, in the fulness of his grief, he wept aloud. Simon Lawless gazed at him in silent sympathy. He could say nothing. Consolation was a mockery. “If they have perished in this fire,” he said, ‘‘ we will take a terrible revenge.” The armourer answered not, His heart was too full for words. Suddenly, in the midst of his sorrow, he heard a voice, ‘ Leslie, Leslie, are you here ?” ’ Simon started. ‘That is Pilgrim Corder,” said he; “ what can he want ?”’ He approached the edge of the terrace. Leaning over, he cried out— ‘Corder, what do you want?” “JT want Frank Leslie; I have news of his daughter.” With one bound the armourer sprang to the edge of the terrace. “ Who wants me?” “ Pilgrim Corder.” “ What news of my daughter ?” ‘She has, by this time, reached your house ; she was carried thither by Harold Fordyce, your apprentice,” ‘There was no reply. No thanks were given to him. =) erence SS i iP Frank Leslie knew of another who claimed the first thanksgiving, and, bowing his head meekly, he said a low, gentle prayer to Heaven. Then he roused himself, “ Our presence is no longer needed here,” he said; “let us hurry home. I long to press my dear child to my heart, and to shake that noble boy by the hand. Oome, Lawless, dismiss and thank your followers, and follow me.” Simon grasped the armourer’s hand. “No,” he said, “I cannot follow you ; I have business yet todo. My life, while it continues thus, as it were, a charmed one, must be used for the great cause. I wish you all joy and happiness until I see you again. Farewell.” parewell, then,” said the armourer, “ fare- well,” Then he clambered over the side of the tcr- race, and, dropping knee-deep in the river, entered a boat, and pushed off towards home. Ob! how eagerly he made his way towards the house in the Strand, which he so earnestly hoped contained his favourite daughter and his favourite apprentice. At length the stairs are reached. He leaps again knee-deep in the water—he rushes up the yard into his house, and in another moment Ettie is hanging—crying and laughing —around his neck. When at length he had suoceeded in quieting Ettie, he grasped Harold by the hand. “ Noble boy,” he said, “noble boy! I cannot exprees to you my gratitude, or the regret I feel at baving accused you wrongfully. For so I id.”’ “Of what, sir?’ “Of having been the means of carrying off my daughter.” Harold looked astonished. ‘¢ Accused me ?” “Ah! well you may be surprised, my boy,” said the armourer; ‘but I had an idea that you mistrusted me, and [ fancied—amid a whirlwind of fanciee—that for some mistaken action of kindness towarda Ettie you had assisted in re- moving her from my control.” The armourer’s words had aroused strange memories in Harold’s mind—terrible, terrible memories—but at such a time it would have been unjust and cruel to have brought them to his master's recollection. On the following morning Harold woke early. He had had little sleep, for he could not banish from his recollection the terrible scene through which he had gone, The sheet of fire—the leap in the dark—when he had alighted on the tloor, how the brave old man with the silvered beard followed him, and rushed, half mad with excitement, towards Ettie’s room, to find her safe, though fainting with terror and the suffocating heat—these memories were fresh in his mind, and drove from him all power of continuous slumber. There was the sweet recollection, too, of how Ettie, when she lay half insensible in his arms as he bore her through the fiery ordeal, had murmured in his ear, ‘Dear, brave Harold, I shall never forget you.” He felt himself a man, He felt himself expanding unde the pres- sure of strange circumstances into an older and stronger existence, - \G book af =, /. CO