The negress was kneeling under the gateway, pouring out her simple thanks to Heaven for this unexpected deliverance; and Philammon was about to kneel too, when a thought struck him; and coolly despoiling the Jew of his shawl and sash, he handed them over to the poor negress, considering them fairly enough as his own by right of conquest; but, lo and behold! as she was overwhelming him with thanks, a fresh mob poured into the street from the upper end, and were close on them before they were aware ....

A flush of terror and despair,....

and then a burst of joy, as, by mingled moonlight and torchlight, Philammon descried priestly robes, and in the forefront of the battle--there being no apparent danger--Peter the Reader, who seemed to be anxious to prevent inquiry, by beginning to talk as fast as possible.
'Ah, boy! Safe?
The saints be praised! We gave you up for dead! Whom have you here?
A prisoner?
And we have another.

He ran right into our arms up the street, and the Lord delivered him into our hand.

He must have passed you.' 'So he did,' said Philammon, dragging up his captive, 'and here is his fellow-scoundrel.' Whereon the two worthies were speedily tied together by the elbows; and the party marched on once more in search of Alexander's church, and the supposed conflagration.
Philammon looked round for the negress, but she had vanished.