The fellow swings round at the touch, and bursts into a roar of
laughter. He was masked, as were all his companions; but I knew him
by his make to be Cyrus Vetch. Well, he laughs, and shakes off the
watchman's feeble grasp, and springing back, draws his sword; and
in another instant there was old Ben, the center of the group,
skipping this way and that to avoid their sword points, protesting,
threatening, appealing, escaping one merely to run upon another.
I will say this for them, that they intended to do him no harm;
their lunges were sportive and not in earnest; but diverting as the
sport was to them, it was the very contrary to the old man, whose
cries proclaimed that he thought his last hour was come.
All this happened in the space of a few moments. I was unwilling to
leave old Ben to the mercy of his tormentors while I ran for
assistance, as I was intending; yet it was clear I could do nothing
alone.
"John Kynaston," thinks I, "lives only a couple of hundred yards
away: he and I together might account for the ruffians."
I was just turning to make my way to Kynaston's house, when a cry
of pain from the old man drove out all considerations of prudence.
In dodging one of that ring of steel points it would appear that he
had stumbled full upon another, and the weapon, by accident or
otherwise, had pierced his arm. My blood was up; I clean forgot my
design of running for help. I had no weapon with me, but, hastily
scanning the dim-lit street for a something to wield, my foot
kicked an object in the gutter.
Pages:
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48