Jeffray, with eyes ablaze, snatched up one of his own “flintlocks,” leaned out of the window, and fired at Isaac, who was running along behind the coach and pulling a second pistol from his belt. At the moment that Jeffray fired, the fore wheel smashed the man’s legs who was lying wounded in the road. The fellow’s yell of anguish spoiled Jeffray’s aim. The bullet tore a shred of cloth from the shoulder of Isaac’s coat, but did not stop the old wolf’s rush.
Gladden was crouching on the roof, shouting to the coachman to give the horses the whip. He hurled the empty blunderbuss at Isaac as the old man made a clutch at one of the springs and missed. The musket fell at Grimshaw’s feet and tripped him up as cleanly as a Bow Street runner’s foot. His pistol flashed in the fall, the bullet sighing sadly over the fields. By the time Isaac had picked himself up, and stood clashing his teeth like a balked beast, the coach was fifty yards away, and going at a gallop towards the sea.
Jeffray had turned from the window, and seized Bess’s arm.
“Are you hurt?”
She pointed to her breast, and he saw how near the shot had passed to her. Her gown was rent just over the heart, and the pistol wad still smoked on the lace she wore.
“Was it Isaac?” she asked.
“Yes, curse him.”
“I thought I had my death, Richard—”
“He would have hit you if I had not pulled you down to me. Look, the shot has singed the shoulder of my coat.”
He laughed, as a man laughs at times when he has been near death, snatched the smoking wad from the lace at Bess’s bosom, and tossed it through the window.