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. “Isaac shall have no second chance,” he said; “thank God, dear, he did not spoil it all.” And they held each other very close awhile, awed and silenced by what had happened. By the hovel, Isaac was bending over the young man Enoch, who was groaning and writhing in the road. The slugs from the blunderbuss had fleshed him cruelly, but his broken legs hurt him more than Gladden’s lead. Isaac Grimshaw’s eyes showed no pity for the lad; his helpless whimperings made the old man savage. “Drop that snivelling! Curse your bones and the mother that made ’em. What did I say to ye, ‘Get to the horses’ heads,’ wasn’t it? Not, ‘Stand off and shove your arm up like a scarecrow in the middle of a field.’ Pretty mess you’ve made. Stop that row, or I’ll give ye the pistol butt.” Enoch was half fainting and too distraught with pain to give much heed to Isaac’s curses. The old man took him by the collar of the coat, and dragged him into the hovel, despite his cries as the broken bones jarred and rubbed together. The lower end of one splintered shin-bone had pierced the skin and showed through the lad’s stocking when Isaac let him rest at last on the foul straw of the shed. “Lie there and snivel, damn you,” he said. “The louder you shout, the sooner you’ll be hanged.” And after reloading his pistols he crammed his hat down over his eyes, took his holly staff, and, ignoring Enoch’s whimperings, limped away doggedly along the road to the sea. XLVII