prevent him from drawing his own pistols from his boots.

THE SERGEANT. Lay hold of him there. Pin his arms. I have his
pistols. [The soldiers seize Edstaston.]

EDSTASTON. Ah, would you, damn you! [He drives his knee into the
Sergeant's epigastrium, and struggles furiously with his
captors.]

THE SERGEANT [rolling on the ground, gasping and groaning]. Owgh!
Murder! Holy Nicholas! Owwwgh!

CLAIRE. Help! help! They are killing Charles. Help!

NARYSHKIN [seizing her and clapping his hand over her mouth]. Tie
him neck and crop. Ten thousand blows of the stick if you let him
go. [Claire twists herself loose: turns on him: and cuffs him
furiously.] Yow--ow! Have mercy, Little Mother.

CLAIRE. You wretch! Help! Help! Police! We are being murdered.
Help!

The Sergeant, who has risen, comes to Naryshkin's rescue, and
grasps Claire's hands, enabling Naryshkin to gag her again. By
this time Edstaston and his captors are all rolling on the ground
together. They get Edstaston on his back and fasten his wrists
together behind his knees. Next they put a broad strap round his
ribs. Finally they pass a pole through this breast strap and
through the waist strap and lift him by it, helplessly trussed
up, to carry him of. Meanwhile he is by no means suffering in