of the borough maces bears an eloquent dent to this day.

The Mayor, catching his toe in the stirrup as he slipped off,
staggered and fell at our feet. But the body of his horse,
interposed between him and the rioters, protected him for an instant,
and in that instant my father and Nat Fiennes dragged him up and
thrust him to the rear while we faced the assault. For now, and
without a word said, the Methodists were forgotten, and we of the
Rose were standing for law and order against this other company of
the Rose, of whose quarrel we knew nothing at all.

Our attitude indeed, and the sight of drawn swords (to oppose which
they had no weapons but short cudgels), appeared to take them aback
for the moment. The press, however, closing on us, as we backed to
cover the Mayor's retreat, offered less and less occasion for sword
play; and, the seamen still advancing and outnumbering us by about
three to one, the whole affair began to wear an ugly look.

At this juncture relief came to us in the strangest fashion. I had
clean forgotten the little Methodist man in black; whom, to be sure,
I had no occasion to remember but for the quiet resolution of his
carriage as he had stood with the burst egg trickling over his face.
But now, to the surprise of us all, he sprang forward upon the second
mace-bearer, snatched the mace from his hand and laid about him in a
sudden frenzy; at the first blow, delivered at unawares, catching the
ringleader on the crown and felling him like an ox. For a second,
perhaps, he stared, amazed at his own prowess, and with that the lust
of battle seized him.

He rained blows; yet with cunning, running forth and back into our