Crown and mitre

Mr Burnaby, who had escaped from prison that afternoon, thought he must be going mad; or else London was. His escape had been mad enough. He had simply walked out. This very afternoon, Thursday October 13th, 1659, he had walked out of the Gatehouse prison at Westminster, where he had been awaiting trial as a rebel taken in arms against the Commomwealth of England. The turnkey, bringing his dinner, had been hardly in the cell with it when such a shouting had broken out in the yard below that the man had gone running, forgetting his keys: and Harry Burnaby, who could at least take a chance when he had it, had quietly followed him down. In the yard the turnkeys had all been jostling round the gate, where a man on horseback was bawling out what seemed to be some tale of news and not a head had turned at Harry Burnaby, still taking his chance, slipped quietly round the yard and out of the wicket gate. Since then he had been making his way to London, past Whitehall and the Charing Cross, along the Strand and the noisy bustle of Fleet Street, and now he was in the City proper, through the Ludgate and looking up the hill. Somewhere in front of him, if he could have seen it in the dark must