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Updated: June 22, 2025
Bensington, half burned, had partially recovered, and had renewed her fortifications; Wallingford, hard by, had never risen since the frightful Christmas of 1006. Dorchester now rose before them. They had accomplished fifty miles of hard riding that night. They were seen, challenged, and recognised, by a patrol without the gates, and the cry, "Long live King Edmund!" echoed from all sides.
Then a descendant flight of sharper beats broke up that effect, and were repeated. "Come in," he cried, perceiving that some one rapped, and the door that was big enough for a cathedral opened slowly a little way. The new winch ceased to creak, and Bensington appeared in the crack, gleaming benevolently under his protruded baldness and over his glasses.
If we grant that this "insurgent bigness" must conquer the world, the final result is only humanity in the same relation to life that it now occupies, and we are left to reflect with Bensington, after the vision had faded, on "sinister shadows, vast declivities and darknesses, inhospitable immensities, cold, wild and terrible things."
Redwood, careless of Bensington in his excitement, rushed in pursuit, and was knocked headlong by a mass of brick fragments, mortar, plaster, and rotten lath splinters that came flying out at him as a bullet whacked through the wall. He found himself sitting on the ground with blood on his hands and lips, and a great stillness brooded over all about him.
'Orrible affair 'orrible affair rats eaten by Stchewpendous rats. Full perticulars 'orrible affair." Cossar, the well-known civil engineer, found them in the great doorway of the flat mansions, Redwood holding out the damp pink paper, and Bensington on tiptoe reading over his arm.
The man who had run away met them full tilt he had dropped his gun. "Hullo," said Cossar, and caught him in his arms. "What's this?" "They came out together," said the man. "The rats?" "Yes, six of them." "Where's Flack?" "Down." "What's he say?" panted Bensington, coming up, unheeded. "Flack's down?" "He fell down." "They came out one after the other." "What?" "Made a rush.
Think you can do it? All right. License? Get eight at a post-office, of course. Gun licenses, you know. Not game. Why? It's rats, man. "You Bensington. Got a telephone? Yes. I'll ring up five of my chaps from Ealing. Why five? Because it's the right number! "Where you going, Redwood? Get a hat! Nonsense. Have mine. You want guns, man not hats. Got money? Enough? All right. So long.
Bang and a diminuendo of echoes. Stillness. Then, thank goodness! Redwood and Cossar were coming out of the inaudible darknesses, and Redwood was calling "Bensington!" "Bensington! We've bagged another of the rats!" "Cossar's bagged another of the rats!" When the Expedition had finished refreshment, the night had fully come.
Born of humble parents in the village of Bensington, near Oxford, Nicholas Breakspear became a monk at St Alban’s, and having once entered the religious life, he rose by sheer force of intellect and an iron strength of will to the attainment of the highest honour the Church could bestow.
He flung up a window which opened on a ventilating shaft, and showed that the wall was set with iron staples that made the rudest and most perilous of wall ladders to serve as a fire escape from the upper flats. He shoved Mr. Bensington out of the window, showed him how to cling on, and pursued him up the ladder, goading and jabbing his legs with a bunch of keys whenever he desisted from climbing.
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