The candle which Mr. Chester held above his head as he opened the door threw a lurid glow around his fearful form. In a paroxysm of blind delirium the furious wretch threw himself upon his arch enemy. The candle fell to the ground and was extinguished. But the madman needed no light to guide him. He would kill this monster who came to destroy him; he would squeeze the breath out of him; he would tear him limb from limb. He raised Mr. Chester in his arms as though he were a reed, and dashed him on to the bed. He knelt upon him, and struck at him with wild force, and pressed his hands upon his throat, with murderous intent. Mr. Chester was as a child in his grasp--powerless to defend himself, powerless to escape, only able, at intervals, to scream for help.
The sounds of this terrible struggle aroused the whole house, and every person leaped from bed, the most courageous among them running to ascertain the cause of the disturbance. Mrs. Chester was the first to reach the room. She had no candle, but she saw enough to convince her that her husband's life was in danger. She threw herself upon the delirious man, and added her affrighted shrieks to the confusion. The lodgers came hurrying up, and their candles cast a light upon the scene.
Then Mrs. Chester saw clearly before her--saw the distorted face of the man who was striving to strangle her husband--saw in his hand a tin whistle, with which, deeming it to be a dagger, he was stabbing at the form writhing in his grasp.
"O God!" she shrieked. "It is Ned--my boy Ned! Ned--Ned! for the love of God, come off! Are you blind or mad? It is your father you are killing!"
Her words fell upon heedless ears. So strung to a dangerous tension was his tortured imagination, that the entreating voices, the lights, the hands about him striving to frustrate his deadly purpose, were unheard, unseen, unfelt.
The men grappled with him, but their united efforts were unavailing; their blows had no more effect upon him than falling rain. Thus the terrible struggle continued.
"Ned--Ned!" cried Mrs. Chester again, forcing her face between him and the object of his fury, so that, haply, he might recognise her, "for gracious God's sake, take your hands away! Your mother is speaking to you."
The lines in his forehead deepened--the mole on his temple became suffused with blood--the cruel, frenzied expression on his face grew darker and stronger. He dashed her aside with a curse, and, had it not been that one of the bystanders pulled her out of reach of his arm, he would have left his mark upon her.
But as her son turned from her, the struggle came to an end, without being brought to this happier pass by the force of either words or blows. Simply by the appearance of a little child. In this wise:
The conversation that had taken place between husband and wife in Mrs. Chester's bedroom had awakened Sally and her baby-treasure. Sally did not move when her father went out of the room, but when, alarmed by his cries for help, her mother followed him, Sally got out of bed, and lifted her baby treasure to the ground. Hand in hand, they crept to the top of the house.