The Count held him by the other arm, and in this fashion
they emerged on the square, which now lay in darkness save for the
many lights twinkling under the arcade and in the windows of the
gaming-rooms above it.
Tony by this time had regained voice enough to declare that he would
go where they pleased, but that he must first say a word to the mate
of the Hepzibah, who had now been awaiting him some two hours or
more at the landing-place.
The Count repeated this to Tony's custodian, but the latter shook
his head and rattled off a sharp denial.
"Impossible, sir," said the Count. "I entreat you not to insist. Any
resistance will tell against you in the end."
Tony fell silent. With a rapid eye he was measuring his chances of
escape. In wind and limb he was more than a mate for his captors,
and boyhood's ruses were not so far behind him but he felt himself
equal to outwitting a dozen grown men; but he had the sense to see
that at a cry the crowd would close in on him. Space was what he
wanted: a clear ten yards, and he would have laughed at Doge and
Council. But the throng was thick as glue, and he walked on
submissively, keeping his eye alert for an opening. Suddenly the mob
swerved aside after some new show. Tony's fist shot out at the black
fellow's chest, and before the latter could right himself the young
New Englander was showing a clean pair of heels to his escort. On he
sped, cleaving the crowd like a flood-tide in Gloucester bay, diving
under the first arch that caught his eye, dashing down a lane to an
unlit water-way, and plunging across a narrow hump-back bridge which
landed him in a black pocket between walls.
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