" "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter. It would hurt no one. Consider you’ve got resources deposited with me. But as Rowland sprang to the helm, and gave the signal for pursuit, a roar like a volley of ordnance was heard aloft, and the wind again burst its bondage.
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