Having crossed the ferry, he inquired of the boatman the way to the nearest inn. A dreary by-lane was pointed out to him, with an intimation that it would lead to a small public-house, at the distance of about a mile.
Richard pursued his way, and had proceeded about three hundred yards down the lane, which was shaded on either side by large chesnut-trees, when several individuals rushed upon him so suddenly that he had no time to offer any effectual resistance.
He, however, struggled desperately, as two of the banditti (for such his assailants were) attempted to bind his arms with cords.
But his endeavours to free himself from their grasp were vain and fruitless, and only provoked a rougher treatment at their hands; for one of the banditti drew a pistol from his belt, and with the butt-end of the weapon aimed a desperate blow at our hero's head.
Richard fell, bleeding and insensible, upon the ground.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying in a comfortable bed.
Putting aside the damask-silk curtains, he glanced anxiously around the room, which was sumptuously furnished.
He fell back on his pillow, and strove to collect his scattered ideas. His head pained him: he raised his hand to his forehead, and found that it was bandaged.
Then the attack of the banditti in the dark lane flashed across his mind; and he mechanically thrust his hand into his bosom.