It was one of the Greek brigands, who had seen him asleep, no doubt, and was about to do for him.
Poor Mole.
Cold beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.
A channel of sweat trickled down the small of his back.
His very wig stood up on his scalp with terror.
What should he do?
Alas! it would soon be all over with him.
The ghastly object crawled on.
A minute more and the wretched man would be up with him.
Now, poor old Mole had on occasions been what is called pot-valiant.