“He has killed the man—stabbed him with a dagger to the very heart!” was the cry that came from those of the crowd who were kneeling beside the wretch in the gutter.
“And a woman—he had slain a woman at the outset. Hold him fast. None of us are safe this night. Have a care for the dagger, friends!”
A sufficiency of advice was given by the excited onlookers to the men who had encircled Baretti—one of them was clinging to him with his arms clasped around his body—until two of the Haymarket watch hurried up, striking right and left with their staves after the wholesome manner of the period, and so making a way for their approach through the crowd.
“'Tis more than a street brawl—a man has been slain—some say a woman also,” a shopkeeper explained to them, having run bareheaded out of his shop; his apprentice had just put up the last of the shutters.
They had Baretti by the collar in a second, cautiously disarming him, holding the weapon up to the nearest lamp. The blade was still wet with blood.
“A swinging matter this,” one of them remarked. “I can swear to the blood. No dagger, but a knife. What man walks the streets at night with a naked knife unless slaughter is his intent?”
“Friends, I was attacked by three bullies, and I defended myself—that is all,” said Baretti. He spoke English perfectly.
“You will need to tell that to Sir John in the morning,” said one of the watchmen. “You are apprehended in the King's name. Where is the poor victim?”
“There must be some of the crowd who saw how I was attacked,” said Baretti. “They will testify that I acted in self-defence. Sirs, hear me make an appeal to you. Out of your sense of justice—you will not see an innocent man apprehended.”
“The knife—who carries a bare knife in the streets unless with intent?” said a man.