As he spoke, Dick’s hobnailed boot appeared, his corduroy leg followed, and next moment he stood in the room with a menacing look and attitude and a short thick bludgeon in his knuckly hand. Bill quickly stood beside him. After another cautious look round, the two advanced with extreme care—each step so carefully taken that the hobnails fell like rose-leaves on the carpet. Feeling that the “coast was clear,” Dick advanced with more confidence, until he stood between the ancient warriors, whose pedestals raised them considerably above his head.
At that moment there was a sharp click, as of an iron hinge. Dick’s heart seemed to leap into his throat. Before he could swallow it, the iron mace of the Crusader descended with stunning violence on his crown.
Well was it for the misguided man that morning that he happened to have purchased a new and strong billycock the day before, else would that mace have sent him—as it had sent many a Saracen of old—to his long home. The blow effectually spoilt the billycock, however, and stretched its owner insensible on the floor.
The other burglar was too close behind his comrade to permit of a second blow being struck. The lively Crusader, however, sprang upon him, threw his mailed arms round his neck, and held him fast.
And now began a combat of wondrous ferocity and rare conditions. The combatants were unequally matched, for the man was huge and muscular, while the youth was undeveloped and slender, but what the latter lacked in brute force was counterbalanced by the weight of his armour, his youthful agility, and his indomitable pluck. By a deft movement of his legs he caused Bill to come down on his back, and fell upon him with all his weight plus that of the Crusader. Annoyed at this, and desperately anxious to escape before the house should be alarmed, Bill delivered a roundabout blow with his practised fist that ought to have driven in the skull of his opponent, but it only scarified the man’s knuckles on the Crusader’s helmet. He tried another on the ribs, but the folds of chain-mail rendered that abortive. Then the burglar essayed strangulation, but there again the folds of mail foiled him. During these unavailing efforts the unconscious Dick came in for a few accidental raps and squeezes as he lay prone beside them.
Meanwhile, the Crusader adopted the plan of masterly inactivity, by simply holding on tight and doing nothing. He did not shout for help, because, being bull-doggish in his nature, he preferred to fight in silent ferocity. Exasperated as well as worn by this method, Bill became reckless, and made several wild plunges to regain his feet. He did not succeed, but he managed to come against the pedestal of the knight in mail with great violence. The iron warrior lost his balance, toppled over, and came down on the combatants with a hideous crash, suggestive of coal-scuttles and fire-irons.
Sleep, sermons, and draughts could no longer enchain! Mrs Stronghand awoke, buried her startled head in the bed-clothes, and quaked. Emmie sprang out of bed and huddled on her clothes, under the impression that fire-engines were at work. The Reverend Theophilus leaped up, seized the study poker and a lamp, and rushed towards the dining-room. Overturning the draught-board, Simon grasped a rolling-pin, Robin the tongs, and both made for the same place. They all collided at the door, burst it open, and advanced to the scene of war.
It was a strange scene! Bill and the Crusader, still struggling, were giving the remains of the other knight a lively time of it, and Dick, just beginning to recover, was sitting with a dazed look in a sea of iron débris.
“That’s right; hit him hard, father!” cried Harry, trying to look round.
“No, don’t, sir,” cried the burglar; “I gives in.”