Running footsteps — light, soft-soled shoes made of curious leathery cloth brought from Ceylon setting the pace; thick flowing boots, two pairs, dark blue and gilt¹, reflecting the moonlight in blunt gleams and splotches, following a stone’s throw behind.

Soft Shoes flashes through a patch of moonlight, then darts² into a blind labyrinth³ of alleys⁴ and becomes only an intermittent⁶ scuffle ahead somewhere in the enfolding darkness. In go Flowing Boots, with short swords lurching and long plumes⁷ awry⁸, finding a breath to curse God and the black lanes of London.

Soft Shoes leaps a shadowy gate and crackles through a hedgerow. Flowing Boots leap the gate and crackles through the hedgerow — and there, startlingly, is the watch ahead — two murderous pikemen of ferocious⁹ cast of mouth acquired in Holland and the Spanish marches.

But there is no cry for help. The pursued does not fall panting at the feet of the watch, clutching a purse; neither do the pursuers raise a hue¹⁰ and cry. Soft Shoes goes by in a rush of swift air. The watch curse and hesitate, glance after the fugitive¹¹, and then spread their pikes grimly across the road and wait for Flowing Boots. Darkness, like a great hand, cuts off the even flow the moon.

The hand moves off the moon whose pale caress¹² finds again the eaves and lintels, and the watch, wounded and tumbled in the dust. Up the street one of Flowing Boots leaves a black trail of spots until he

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