"That's it!" cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. "But we'll find a way to make you open your lips presently. On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. If I’d known, there would have been a different story. “Look here,” he said, protruding his eyes; “why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. “They have all been trying to turn my head.
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