Still the debate went on, either side as
unbending as before. Now many citizens, anxious to know how things
went, slipped into the room and stood behind the members, listening
as the debate was flung this way and that. Outside the night was
dark, within the woodpanelled room the flickering candles shed but
a dim, uncertain light.
They made strange dancing shadows, shining fitfully on the stern,
eager faces of the men who sat round the table, but scarcely
revealing against the gloom the crowd of anxious citizens behind.
Sir Edmund was weary of the talk. He would have no more of it, and,
suddenly rising, he stretched out his hand to seize the charter.
Then, swiftly from out the shadowy circle of listeners, a cloak was
flung upon the table. It fell upon the candles and put them out.
In a moment the room was in total darkness.
There was an outcry and a scuffling of feet, the sound of an opening
window, a call for lights. But lights were no such speedy matters
in those days when matches had not been invented. When at length
the scratching of the tinder boxes was done and the candles relit,
every one looked eagerly at the table. Behold, the charter was
gone!
Sir Edmund stormed, and citizens and councilors looked blankly at
each other. But meanwhile through the darkness a man sped. In his
hand he held a parchment, and he never halted in his run till he
reached a great oak tree.
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