I had offered him a mortal insult and stirred up a worse hornet's nest than Rasta's push.
Peter and I, with a common impulse, took to our heels.

We were not looking for any trouble with demoniacs.

Up the steep, narrow lane we ran with that bedlamite crowd at our heels.

The torches seemed to have gone out, for the place was black as pitch, and we tumbled over heaps of offal and splashed through running drains.

The men were close behind us, and more than once I felt a stick on my shoulder.