As the lancer came up, I dropped my sword from my right
hand, and hurled the portmanteau at his head, with aim so true, that he
fell back on his saddle like a sack, and thus when the horse galloped up
to me, I had no difficulty in dismounting the rider: the whiskey-bottle
struck him over his right eye, and he was completely stunned. To dash
him from the saddle and spring myself into it, was the work of a moment;
indeed, the two combats had taken place in about a fifth part of the
time which it has taken the reader to peruse the description. But in the
rapidity of the last encounter, and the mounting of my enemy's horse, I
had committed a very absurd oversight--I was scampering away WITHOUT MY
SWORD! What was I to do?--to scamper on, to be sure, and trust to the
legs of my horse for safety!
The lancer behind me gained on me every moment, and I could hear his
horrid laugh as he neared me. I leaned forward jockey-fashion in my
saddle, and kicked, and urged, and flogged with my hand, but all in
vain. Closer--closer--the point of his lance was within two feet of my
back. Ah! ah! he delivered the point, and fancy my agony when I felt it
enter--through exactly fifty-nine pages of the New Monthly Magazine.
Had it not been for that Magazine, I should have been impaled without a
shadow of a doubt.
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