I had carried it thus far on my shoulders, but now was compelled to
sacrifice it malgre moi. As the lancer came up, I dropped my sword
from my right hand, and hurled the portmanteau at his head, with
aim so true, that he fell back on his saddle like a sack, and thus
when the horse galloped up to me, I had no difficulty in
dismounting the rider: the whisky-bottle struck him over his right
eye, and he was completely stunned. To dash him from the saddle
and spring myself into it, was the work of a moment; indeed, the
two combats had taken place in about a fifth part of the time which
it has taken the reader to peruse the description. But in the
rapidity of the last encounter, and the mounting of my enemy's
horse, I had committed a very absurd oversight--I was scampering
away WITHOUT MY SWORD! What was I to do?--to scamper on, to be
sure, and trust to the legs of my horse for safety!

The lancer behind me gained on me every moment, and I could hear
his horrid laugh as he neared me. I leaned forward jockey-fashion
in my saddle, and kicked, and urged, and flogged with my hand, but
all in vain. Closer--closer--the point of his lance was within two
feet of my back. Ah! ah! he delivered the point, and fancy my
agony when I felt it enter--through exactly fifty-nine pages of the
New Monthly Magazine. Had it not been for that Magazine, I should
have been impaled without a shadow of a doubt. Was I wrong in
feeling gratitude? Had I not cause to continue my contributions to
that periodical?

When I got safe into Morella, along with the tail of the sallying
party, I was for the first time made acquainted with the ridiculous
result of the lancer's thrust (as he delivered his lance, I must
tell you that a ball came whizz over my head from our fellows, and