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.