Wringhim was braying out, "Murder! murder!" at which George,
being disgusted, and his spirits all in a ferment from some hurried
idea of intended harm, the moment he came up with the craven he
seized him rudely by the shoulder, and clapped his hand on his
mouth. "Murder, you beast!" said he; "what do you mean by
roaring out murder in that way? Who the devil is murdering you,
or offering to murder you?"
Wringhim forced his mouth from under his brother's hand, and
roared with redoubled energy: "Eh! Egh! Murder! murder!" etc.
George had felt resolute to put down this shocking alarm, lest
someone might hear it and fly to the spot, or draw inferences
widely different from the truth; and, perceiving the terror of this
elect youth to be so great that expostulation was vain, he seized
him by the mouth and nose with his left hand so strenuously that
he sank his fingers into his cheeks. But, the poltroon still
attempting to bray out, George gave him such a stunning blow
with his fist on the left temple that he crumbled, as it were, to the
ground, but more from the effects of terror than those of the blow.
His nose, however, again gushed out blood, a system of defence
which seemed as natural to him as that resorted to by the race of
stinkards.
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