"Here, Phebe, take the child; take care of the mother; tell her all is safe; the Lord watches over the truly penitent; he will protect; he will save."
I dragged the unconscious mass of human flesh down upon the pavement, and struck three sharp blows upon the stones, with the broken cane—broken in avenging a feeble woman. It was answered right and left, up and down, and again repeated. I peered into the darkness for the coming succor.
Will it come? Will it come in time? For a strong hand has seized my only weapon, now he has it in his. There is a momentary struggle—the prostrate man is up and the other one down.
A large Bowie knife, the midnight prowler's fashionable weapon, is gleaming at my throat. A moment more, and all my debts were paid and duties done.
Moments fleet fast, but all too slow for the assassin's knife, when it is not the will of Him that giveth life, that life should fail. The knife fell, but not with a blow—it fell from a broken arm.
The watchman's club had done the work. The watchman had heard the call, and had come in time to save the avenger and punish the assassin.
"Take him away. You know me and where to send when I am wanted. I have another life to save inside this house."
What was said or done need not be told. The reader is dull of divining power, if he does not already know. I cannot tell. I only know that I awaked from a short nap, next morning, in an easy chair, with a sweet little girl, some three years old, clinging her arms around my neck and nestling her cheek up to mine. Had mortal ever sweeter dreams?
"What time is it, Phebe?"
"Don't know dat, sir; sun up yonder."