The more the door resisted him, the more dangerous and imminent became that bloody conspiracy against his life. Force of police arriving, he recognized in them the conspirators, and laid about him hoarsely, fiercely, staringly, convulsively, foamingly. A humble machine, familiar to the conspirators and called by the expressive name of Stretcher, being unavoidably sent for, he was rendered a harmless bundle of torn rags by being strapped down upon it, with voice and consciousness gone out of him, and life fast going. As this machine was borne out at the Temple gate by four men, the poor little dolls’ dressmaker and her Jewish friend were coming up the street.

“Let us see what it is,” cried the dressmaker. “Let us make haste and look, godmother.”

The brisk little crutch-stick was but too brisk. “O gentlemen, gentlemen, he belongs to me!”

“Belongs to you?” said the head of the party, stopping it.