that I knew well the person of my murderous assaulter, and that it was
Joshua Daunton.

At this announcement, my quondam messmate slapped his hand upon his knee
with a violence that echoed through the court, grinned, then looked
profoundly serious; but made me very thankful by holding his peace, and
shaking his head most awfully. When I proceeded to give a very accurate
description of this wretch's person, looks of understanding passed
between three or four of the principal runners, who were attentively
listening to the proceedings. When this business was concluded, the
magistrate said to me, "The young man who has committed this outrage
upon your person, we have strong reason to believe, is amenable to the
laws for other crimes. He has eluded our most active officers; and it
was supposed that he had left the kingdom. It appears now that he has
returned. You have had a most providential escape. The pistol will
give us a good clue. There is no doubt but that shortly we shall be
able to give a good account of him. Let me now advise you, Mr Rattlin,
to have your hurt examined. Come into my private room; a surgeon will
be here in an instant."

Pigtop and I were then ushered into a room on one side of the office. I
looked extremely foolish--almost, in fact, as confused as if I had been
charged with an offence. The surgeon soon made his appearance; but, in
the short interval, the magistrate had begun to thrust home with his
questions as to who I was, what were my intentions, and the probable
motives of Daunton's attempt on my life. All these I parried as well as
I could, without letting him know anything of the supposed consanguinity
between myself and the culprit: his motive I accounted for as revenge
for some real or imaginary insult inflicted by me when we were on board
the _Eos_.

Upon my persisting to refuse, for some time, to strip, that the wound
might be examined, the magistrate began to look grave, and the surgeon
hinted that it was, perhaps, as well not to seek for what was not to be
found. The dread of being looked upon as an impostor overcame my shame
at the _expose_ of my romantic weakness. Poor Pigtop had alarms upon
totally other grounds. He watched with painful anxiety the unwinding of
his tourniquet, ready to receive me dying into his arms. His surprise
was greater, I fear me, than his joy, when he discovered no signs of
bleeding when his handkerchief was removed.

"What, in the name of