My discharged pistol was in my hand, but I had no time to reload.

I flung myself at the man on the step just as he raised his club, and sending him sprawling on to the road, levelled my weapon at his head.
"Move, and you're a dead man!" said I.
Then turning to his honour, I thrust the pistol into his shaking hand, and said,-- "Fire if he tries to get up, your honour.

Let me get at the other one." He was easily disposed of, for the terrified horse was jerking him off his feet and dragging him here and there in its efforts to get clear.

I soon had him on the road beside his companion, helping him thereto by a crack on the head from his own club; and I then took the horse in hand, and reduced it, after a struggle, to quietness.
Till this was done I had had neither time nor heart to lift my eyes to the occupants of the gig.

His honour, very white, kept his eyes on the men on the road and his finger on the trigger of the pistol.