Ten!
Eleven!
Twelve!
How long these hours took to strike! A measured pause between each stroke, and in that pause the passing away of a life in the life of the great city, or the ushering in of one. This life at an end, this with a feeble cry at the journey before it.
One o'clock!
Samuel Boyd was asleep. No prayer on his lips, no prayer in his heart, before he retired to rest. He slept in peace, undisturbed by fear or remorse.
Suddenly he awoke. His heart beat wildly, a cold perspiration broke out on his forehead.
With a powerful hand pressed upon his mouth, and another at his throat, no man can cry aloud. But while strength remains he can gasp, and moan, and fight for dear life--and may struggle out of bed, still with the hand upon his mouth, and another at his throat--and may summon to his aid all the despairing forces of his body--nay, even while thus imprisoned, succeed in dragging his adversaries this way and that--and may in his agony prolong the execution of the ruthless purpose. Though not avert it.
The door between the two rooms is open while this muffled struggle is going on. Furniture is overturned and displaced, tapestry torn from the walls, and smaller articles tossed in all directions. On the part of one of the men there is displayed a cold, cruel, relentless method in the execution of his design; on the part of the other a wild, despairing effort to obtain possession of a weapon. He succeeds. A pistol is in his hand.
A shot rings out! Another!--and the wax figure of the Chinaman collapses into a chair with a bullet in its heart.