It was all over, and the silver spectacles lay shattered on the floor, like a broken talisman, and a pair of gray, strangely-set, wild eyes glared upon them.
The suddenness of his assault, his disproportioned physical strength and terrific pluck, for a second or two, confounded his adversaries; but he was giddy—his right arm dead by his side. He sat down in a chair confronting them, his empty right hand depending near to the floor, and a thin stream of blood already trickling down his knuckles, his face smiling, and shining whitely with the damp of anguish, and the cold low 'ha, ha, ha!' mocking the reality of the scene.
'Heinous old villain!' said Lowe, advancing on him.
'Well, gentlemen, I've shown fight, eh?—and now I suppose you want my watch, and money, and keys—eh?'
'Read the warrant, Sir,' said Lowe, sternly.
'Warrant! hey—warrant?—why, this is something new—will you be so good as to give me a glass of water—thank you—hold the paper a moment longer—I can't get this arm up.' With his left hand he set down the tumbler-glass, and then held up the warrant.
'Thank ye. Well, this warrant's for Charles Archer.'
'Alias Paul Dangerfield—if you read, Sir.'
'Thank you—yes—I see—that's news to me. Oh! Mr. Lowe—I did not see you—I haven't hurt you, I hope? Why the plague do you come at these robbing hours? We'd have all fared better had you come by daylight.'
Lowe did not take the trouble to answer him.