[Original]
My chances of escape appeared utterly hopeless. The ruffians, by dividing my attention on either side, had enabled the hunchback to creep in and grasp my legs within his long and bony arms. Happily the knife dropped from his hold in his first attempt to stab me, and the night was too dark to enable him to pick it up again. I strove to shake him off, but the wretch clung to me with that virulent tenacity with which a reptile coils itself around its victim. In the attempt to free myself from the cripple, I struck my foot against a stone, stumbled, and, before I could recover my footing, a blow brought me to the ground, the assassins sprang in, and my fate seemed sealed.
That brief space of exquisite agony I shall never forget. Oh, God.’ how hard it is to die! and die, as I should, by felon hands, prostrate and powerless, murdered “i’ the dark,” without the satisfaction of even in an expiring effort “stinging the wretch that stung me.” That moment’s misery was ended. Steps were heard. I hallooed “Murder!”
A voice, and, saints and angels! an Irish one, replied.
The hunchback then hastily cried, “Quick!—strike!—brain him!”
I caught the miscreant by the throat as the last word passed his lips—and next moment two figures flitted past my fading vision, as a blow fell upon my head, and laid me senseless.
Presently I awoke as from a dream. A man supported me; another put a cup of water to my lips; and a couple of crippled watchmen held their lanterns over us. I looked at my supporter; he was strange. My eye turned to his companion. In the dim light his features were not remembered—and yet the hand that held the water to my lips was my foster brother’s. By degrees consciousness returned.
“Where am I?” I muttered.
“Arrah, the Lord only knows!” responded the ratcatcher.
“Was I not attacked—stabbed—knocked down? Who were the assailants? Where are they?” I continued, as wandering recollections of the past flitted across my memory.