embraces Edstaston's hips to 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 silence.

EDSTASTON [gasping]. You shall hear more of this. Damn you, will
you untie me? I will complain to the ambassador. I will write to the
Gazette. England will blow your trumpery little fleet out of the water
and sweep your tinpot army into Siberia for this. Will you let me
go? Damn you! Curse you! What the devil do you mean by it?
I'll--I'll--I'll-- [he is carried out of hearing].

NARYSHKIN [snatching his hands from Claire's face with a scream, and
shaking his finger frantically]. Agh! [The Sergeant, amazed, lets go her
hands.] She has bitten me, the little vixen.

CLAIRE [spitting and wiping her mouth disgustedly]. How dare you put
your dirty paws on my mouth? Ugh! Psha!

THE SERGEANT. Be merciful, Little angel Mother.

CLAIRE. Do not presume to call me your little angel mother. Where are
the police?

NARYSHKIN. We are the police in St Petersburg, little spitfire.

THE SERGEANT. God knows we have no orders to harm you, Little Mother.
Our duty is done. You are well and strong; but I shall never be the same
man again. He is a mighty and terrible fighter, as stout as a bear.
He has broken my sweetbread with his strong knees. God