It was precisely two o'clock on the morning of Whit-monday, the 25th of May 1724, when the remarkable escape before detailed was completed: and, though it wanted full two hours to daybreak, the glimmer of a waning moon prevented it from being totally dark. They had scarcely gained the adjoining cellar when Jonathan and the Jew rushed past in the direction of the vault. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. If he had got off, they might have hanged me, and welcome. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. She stared.
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