All of a sudden Isaac, though half insensible, heard a roar of rage that seemed to come from a lion—­a whiz, a blow like a thunder-clap—­saw one of his assassins driven into the air and falling like a dead clod three yards off, found himself dropped and a man striding over him.  It was George Fielding, who stood a single moment snorting and blowing out his cheeks with rage, then went slap at the mob as a lion goes at sheep; seized one of the small ruffians by the knees, and, by a tremendous effect of strength and rage, actually used him as a flail, and struck brutus with the man’s head, and knocked that ruffian down stunned, and his nose leveled with his cheeks.  The mob recoiled a moment from this one hero.  George knew it could be but for a moment, so he had no sooner felled brutus, and hurled the other’s carcass in their faces, than he pounced on Isaac, whipped him on his back and ran off with him.

He had got thirty yards with him ere the staggered mob could realize it all.

The mob recovered their surprise, and with a yell like a pack of hounds bursting covert dashed after the pair.  The young Hercules made a wonderful effort, but no mortal man could run very fast so weighted.  In spite of his start they caught him in about a hundred yards.  He heard them close upon him—­put the Jew down—­and whispered hastily, “Run to your tent,” and instantly wheeled round and flung himself at thirty men.  He struck two blows and disabled a couple; the rest came upon him like one battering-ram and bore him to the ground; but even as he went down he caught the nearest assailant by the throat and they rolled over one another, the rest kicking savagely at George’s head and loins.  The poor fellow defended his head with one arm and his assailant’s body for a little while, but he received some terrible kicks on the back and legs.

“Give it him on the head!”

“Kick his life out!”

“Settle his hash!”

They were so fiercely intent on finishing George that they did not observe a danger that menaced themselves.

As a round shot cuts a lane through a column of infantry, so clean came two files of special constables with their short staves severing the mob in two—­crick, crack, crick, crick, crick, crick, crack, crack.  In three seconds ten heads were broken, with a sound just like glass bottles, under the short, deadly truncheon, and there lay half a dozen ruffians writhing on the ground and beating the Devil’s tattoo with their heels.

“Charge back!” cried the head-policeman as soon as he had cut clean through.

But at the very word the cowardly crew fled on all sides yelling.  The police followed in different directions a little way, and through this error three of the felled got up and ran staggering off.  When the head-policeman saw that he cried out: 

“Back, and secure prisoners.”

They caught three who were too stupefied to run, and rescued brutus from George, who had got him by the throat and was hammering the ground with his head.