They were all of them in black clothing, and each wore over his face
a mask of crape, fitting quite closely to his features. I had never
been confronted by anything so dreadful before. Mrs. B. had cried
"Wolf!" so often that I had almost ceased to believe in wolves of
this description at all. Unused to personal combat, and embarrassed
by the novel circumstance under which I found myself, I was standing
undecided on the landing, when I caught that well-known whisper of
"_Henry, Henry!_" from the upper story. The burglars caught it also.
They desisted from their occupation of examining the articles of
_vertu_ upon the chimney-piece, while their fiendish countenances
relaxed into a hideous grin. One of them stole cautiously towards the
door where I was standing. I hear his burglarious feet, I heard the
"_Henry, Henry!_" still going on from above-stairs; I heard my own
heart pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat within me. It was one of those moments in
which one lives a life. The head of the craped marauder was projected
cautiously round the door, as if to listen. I poised my weapon, and
brought it down with unerring aim upon his skull. He fell like a
bullock beneath the axe, and I sped up to my bedchamber with all the
noiselessness and celerity of a bird.
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