“It’s done in a minute,” said Sikes.  “Directly I leave go of you, do your work.  Hark!”

“What’s that?” whispered the other man.

“Nothing,” said Sikes,—­“Now!”

In the short time he had to collect his senses, Oliver had resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart up stairs and to alarm the family.  Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily.

“Come back!” suddenly cried Sikes aloud. “Back!  Back!"

Scared by the sudden breaking of the stillness and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall and knew not whether to advance or fly.  The cry was repeated—­a light appeared—­a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes—­a flash—­a smoke—­a crash somewhere,—­and he staggered back.

Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had Oliver by the collar before the smoke had cleared away.  He fired his pistol after the men, and dragged the boy up.

“Clasp your arm tighter,” said Sikes, as he drew him through the window.  “Give me a shawl here.  They’ve hit him.  Quick!  How the boy bleeds!”

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace.  Then the noises grew confused in the distance; and the boy saw or heard no more.  Bill Sikes had him on his back scudding like the wind.  Oliver’s head hung down, and he was deadly cold.  The pursuers were close upon Sikes’ heels.  He dropped the boy in a ditch and fled.

Hours afterwards Oliver came to himself, and found his left arm rudely bandaged hung useless at his side.  He was so weak that he could scarcely move.  Trembling from cold and exhaustion he made an effort to stand upright, but fell back, groaning with pain.  Then a creeping stupor came over him, warning him that if he lay there he must surely die.  So he got upon his feet, and stumbling on, dizzy and half unconscious, drew near to the very house which caused him to shudder with horror at the memory of last night’s dreadful scene.

Within, in the kitchen all the servants were gathered round the fire discussing the attempted burglary.  While Mr. Giles, the butler, was giving his version of the affair, there came a timid knock.  They opened the door cautiously and beheld poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes and mutely solicited their compassion.  Instantly there was an outcry, and Oliver was seized by one leg and one arm, lugged into the hall, and laid on the floor.  “Here he is!” bawled Giles up the staircase; “here’s one of the thieves, ma’am!  Here’s a thief, miss!  Wounded, miss.  I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light!” There was great confusion then, all the servants talking at once, but the sound of a sweet voice from above quelled the commotion.