It was two o’clock in the morning when the Doctor and Vitriol Bob ascended Shooter’s Hill.

Both were much fatigued—but the former far more so than the latter.

The moon rode high in the heavens, which were spangled with thousands of stars; and every feature of the scene was brought out into strong relief by the pure silvery light that filled the air.

The countenance of Jack Rily was ghastly pale and hideous to gaze upon—his large teeth gleaming through the opening in his upper lip, and his eyes glaring like those of a wild beast about to spring upon its prey;—whereas the features of Vitriol Bob denoted a stern—dogged—ferocious determination.

Having reached the top of the hill, the two men paused as if by mutual though tacit consent; and glancing rapidly along the road in each direction, they neither saw nor heard anything that threatened to interfere with the deadly purpose on which they were now both intent.

No sound of vehicles met their ears—no human forms dotted the long highway which, with its white dust, had the appearance of a river traversing the dark plains.

“Well—are you pretty nearly tired out, Jack?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“I am as fresh as ever,” answered the Doctor.

“But you’re afraid, old feller,” exclaimed the other.

“Not afraid of you!” retorted Jack Rily, contemptuously.

“You would have run away if you could,” said his enemy.

“You are a liar, Bob,” was the savage response.

“No—it’s you that tells the lie, Jack. I’ve watched you narrerly—and I could see all that was a-passing in your mind as plain as if it was a book.”

“But you can’t read a book, Bob, when you have it open before you.”

“There you’re wrong, Doctor: I’ve had my hedication as well as you.”

“And a pretty use you’ve made of it! But I don’t see any use in our standing palavering here: I want to get back to London—and so the sooner you let me polish you off, the better.”

“I’m as anxious to come to the scratch as you. Where shall it be?”

“In the field close by, Bob. We may be interrupted in the road.”

“And yet there’s nothink and no one to be seen.”

“Never mind. We’ll make as sure as possible,” observed the Doctor, who throughout this rapid and laconic colloquy had endeavoured to appear as collected and as composed as possible: but his words had hissed through his teeth—for his mouth was as parched as if he had been swallowing the dry dust of the road.

“Let’s over the hedge, then,” said Vitriol Bob.

The two men accordingly made their way into the adjoining field; and having proceeded to a short distance down the sloping meadow, they suddenly stopped short and confronted each other.

“Shall it be here?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“Yes,” responded Jack Rily; and drawing his clasp-knife, which was already open, from his pocket, he sprang with a savage howl upon his enemy.

But Vitriol Bob was also prepared with his sharp weapon; and catching the Doctor’s right arm with his left hand, he inflicted a wound upon the shoulder upon his foe. Then the two men closed completely upon each other—and the death-struggle commenced!

It was an appalling spectacle,—the knives flashing in the pure moon-light—and the eyes of the miscreants glaring savagely, while they writhed in each other’s embrace, savage howls bursting from them at short intervals.

In less than a minute they were covered with blood: but the nature of the contest only permitted them to inflict hideous gashes and not decisive wounds upon each other. But suddenly Jack Rily’s foot slipped, and he fell backward—bringing however his adversary down upon him: for the left hand of each held a firm grasp upon the collar of the other.

As they thus tumbled, Vitriol Bob endeavoured to plant his knife in the breast of his antagonist—but the spring of the weapon broke, and the blade suddenly closing as it glanced over the Doctor’s shoulder, cut through its owner’s fingers to the very bone. A yell of mingled rage and pain escaped him; but the chances were at the same moment equalised by the fact of Rily’s clasp-knife escaping from his hand.

The death-struggle was now continued by mere brute force; and the Doctor succeeded in getting uppermost. At the same time he seized upon Vitriol Bob’s nose with his large sharp teeth and bit it completely off—in spite of the almost superhuman efforts of the other to resist this savage attack.

Yelling horribly with the pain, and with his countenance bathed in blood, Vitriol Bob once more got his foe beneath him; and the Doctor echoed those appalling cries of agony as he felt the fore-finger of his adversary’s left hand thrust into one of his eyes. Frightful—terrific—revolting was the contest at this crisis,—the two miscreants writhing, struggling, convulsing like snakes in each other’s grasp,—and the ferocious process of gouging inflicting the agonies of hell upon the maddened Jack Rily.

’Twas done: the eye was literally torn out of its socket; but the pain excited the Doctor to the most tremendous efforts in order to wreak a deadly vengeance upon his foe. And as they rolled over on the blood-stained sward, Rily’s hand came in contact with the knife which he had ere now lost; and clutching it with a savage yell of triumph, he plunged it into Vitriol Bob’s throat.

The miscreant, mortally wounded, rolled over on the grass with a gurgling sound coming from between his lips; and Jack Rily was immediately upon him, brandishing the fatal weapon.

Then, at that moment, as the moon-light fell fully upon the countenance of Vitriol Bob, as he gazed up at his victorious enemy, what fiendish hate—what impotent rage—what diabolical malignity were depicted upon those distorted features and expressed in every lineament of that blood-smeared face,—a face rendered the more frightful by the loss of the nose.

“Who will return to London this morning, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily, scarcely able to articulate, so parched was his throat—so agonising was the pain in the socket whence the eye had been torn out. “Ah! you can’t answer—but you know well enough what the reply should be!”

Vitriol Bob made a sudden and desperate effort to throw his enemy off him: but he was easily overpowered—and in another moment the Doctor drove the sharp blade of the knife through the man’s right eye, deep into the brain.

So strong was the convulsive spasm which shot through the form of Vitriol Bob, that the Doctor was hurled completely off him: but all danger of a renewal of the contest was past—Jack Rily’s enemy was no more!

The conqueror lay for some minutes upon the sward, so exhausted that it almost seemed possible to give up the ghost at a gasp: it appeared, in fact, as if he retained a spark of life within himself by his own free will—but that were he to breathe even too hard, existence would become extinct that moment.

A sensation of numbness came over him, deadening the pain which his eyeless socket occasioned him; and for nearly ten minutes a sort of dreamy repose stole upon the man, the incidents of the night becoming confused and all his ideas jumbling together pell-mell.

But suddenly—swift as the lightning darts forth from the thunder-cloud upon the obscurity of a stormy sky—a feeling of all that had happened and where he was sprang up in the Doctor’s soul; and half rising from his recumbent posture, he gazed wildly around with the visual organ that was still left.

The motionless corpse of his slaughtered enemy lay near;—and the moon-light rendered the ghastly countenance fearfully visible.

The pain in the socket now returned with renewed force; and the Doctor, raising himself up with difficulty, began to drag his heavy limbs slowly away from the scene of a horrible contest and a dreadful death.

He was wounded in many places; and the anguish which he now again endured through the loss of his eye, was maddening him.

At the bottom of the field there was a pond; and Jack Rily, on reaching the bank of the stagnant pool, felt that he could at that moment give all the money he possessed for a single glass of pure water. A draught from that pond would be delicious: but how was he to obtain it? He might stoop down, and endeavour to raise it with his hand—or he might even fill his hat: but the bank was steep all round—and the wretched man was so exhausted and enfeebled that he knew he should fall in and most likely be suffocated.

Seating himself upon the bank, he maintained his one eye fixed upon the pond in which the moonbeams were reflected; and at the expiration of a few minutes he resolved to make an attempt to assuage his burning thirst, even though the consequences should be fatal.

Stooping cautiously down, he succeeded in filling his hat; but as he was drawing it up, he overbalanced himself, and fell headlong into the water.

The pond was deep: but Jack Rily managed to drag himself out;—and on gaining the bank he fainted.

How long he remained in a senseless state, he knew not: or whether a deep sleep had succeeded the fit, he was likewise unable to conjecture. Certain it was, however, that on awaking slowly from what appeared to have been a profound trance, a stronger light than that which he had last seen fell upon his view—for the sun had just risen.

Then all the horrors of the past night came back to the wretch’s memory; and, though the pain in his eyeless socket was much mitigated, it was still poignant enough to wring bitter imprecations from his lips.

He endeavoured to rise: but he was as stiff all over as if he had been beaten soundly with a thick stick wielded by a strong hand—and he was also weakened by loss of blood and the fatigues which he had undergone.

He longed to get back to London, not only in order to have surgical assistance to assuage the pain consequent on the frightful injury he had sustained by the loss of his eye; but also because he was fearful that the body of his murdered enemy would be shortly discovered and his own arrest follow as a matter of course.

Therefore, although he would have given worlds to be enabled to lie on the grass for hours longer, he raised himself up, and moved slowly away across the fields.

But how could he enter London in the broad day-light—covered with blood and maimed as he was? One course only appeared open to him: namely, to remain concealed somewhere until night, and then return to his lodgings. Accordingly, he lay down under a hedge at the distance of about a mile from the scene of the previous night’s deadly contest; and again did he sink into a deep trance.

From this he was awakened by the sounds of voices; and starting up, he heard people talking on the other side of the hedge. They were labourers—and having discovered the corpse of Vitriol Bob in the field adjoining Shooter’s Hill, they were hurrying back to the farm to which they belonged, in order to give an alarm. Their pace was rapid—their remarks denoted indescribable horror—and Jack Rily remained a breathless listener until they were out of sight and hearing.

He then rose and moved off across the fields as quickly as he could drag himself along.

The sun was now high in the heavens; and he thereby knew that it was nearly mid-day. Not a breath of wind stirred the air; and the heat was stifling.

He had bandaged his head in such a way with his handkerchief as to conceal the frightful injury which he had received by the loss of his eye: but the pain he experienced was excruciating.

In a short time he reached a rivulet, where he washed himself; and he was likewise enabled to slake his thirst. A turnip plucked from a field afforded him a sorry meal;—and thus was a man having thousands of pounds secured about his person, reduced to the most miserable shifts and compelled to wander about in the most deplorable condition that it is possible to conceive.

Never had the time appeared to pass with such leaden wings;—and, oh! how the man longed for night to fall. Not more ardently did Wellington at Waterloo crave for the coming of the obscurity of evening, when, beaten and hopeless, he was in full retreat ere the Prussians made their appearance to change the fortune of the day and win the victory which England so arrogantly claims, not more earnestly did the Iron Duke desire the presence of the darkness on that occasion, than Jack Rily in the present instance.

At last the sun was sinking in the western horizon; and the Doctor bent his steps towards the metropolis which lay at a distance of about seven miles.

It was nine o’clock in the evening, when Jack Rily entered the southern suburbs; and he succeeded in gaining his lodgings in Roupel Street without attracting any particular observation. A surgeon with whom he was acquainted, and who did not ask any questions so long as he was well paid, dressed his wounds: and the Doctor began to think the victory over his mortal enemy cheaply bought by the loss of an eye. The black patch which he was compelled to wear, certainly increased the hideousness of his countenance: but as vanity was not one of his failings, this circumstance did not so much trouble him as the inconvenience and the pain attendant upon the loss of the optic.

In the course of the ensuing day, the report spread all over London that the body of a man, frightfully mutilated, had been discovered in a field near Shooter’s Hill; and that it had been removed to a public-house at Blackheath, in order to lie there for recognition. A minute description of the clothing which the corpse had on, was given in the newspapers and also in placards posted in the principal thoroughfares of the metropolis; and it was likewise stated that the clasp-knife, with which the mortal blow was struck, had been left by the murderer sticking in the victim’s head.

Now it happened that Mary Calvert—alias Pig-faced Moll—and whom the reader will recollect to have been already represented as Vitriol Bob’s paramour, was alarmed by the protracted absence of her fancy-man; and while wandering about in search of him at his usual haunts, she observed one of the placards.

The attire therein specified exactly corresponded with the dress which Vitriol Bob wore when he quitted her two days previously; and she at once went to the public-house where the body was lying. A glance was sufficient to convince her that her suspicions were well founded; and on examining the clasp-knife, she instantly recognised it as one which she had frequently seen in the possession of Jack Rily.

Everything was now clearly apparent to Molly Calvert. She knew the deadly animosity that Vitriol Bob had nourished against the Doctor: she was likewise acquainted with the intention of her paramour to wreak his vengeance upon that individual on the first suitable occasion;—and she therefore concluded that a deadly conflict had taken place between them, ending in the murder of her fancy-man.

From the public-house where the body lay, she proceeded straight to a police-station, where she gave such information as led to an immediate search after the Doctor. In the course of the next day a member of the Detectives ascertained that Jack Rily had recently been living in Roupel Street, and that he had only quitted his lodgings there the preceding evening. For the Doctor, alarmed by the publicity given to the discovery of Vitriol Bob’s body, had deemed it prudent to flit.

Several days elapsed without affording the police any clue to his whereabouts: but at the expiration of a week Molly Calvert herself one evening traced him to an obscure pot-house in one of the vilest parts of Bethnal Green; and he was immediately arrested.

Upon his person was found a vast sum in gold and bank-notes—but chiefly consisting of the latter; and this amount was accordingly seized by the officers. Jack Rily was then locked up for the night, and on the following morning he was taken before a magistrate.

When charged with the murder of Vitriol Bob, he at once admitted that he had been the cause of that individual’s death, but declared that it was in self-defence. His story was corroborated by many circumstances, amongst which the loss of his eye was not the least; for the organ had been found, as it was torn out of its socket, close by the corpse. The gashes which the man had received—Vitriol Bob’s own clasp-knife, discovered on the fatal spot—and the evident marks of a fearful struggle having taken place,—all proved that the deed was neither cold-blooded nor accomplished by surprise. On the other hand, might not Jack Rily have himself provoked the contest which terminated so fatally to his opponent? This point the magistrate left to a jury to decide; and the Doctor was ordered to be committed for trial. Relative to the money found upon his person, he persisted in declaring that it was his own, and that he had come by it honestly,—but from what source he refused to state.