Meanwhile, Victor has completed his rounds, their patients worried about Adison's absence but happy with the visit anyway. He feels satisfied, and decides to step by the theatre to see if he can pick up his friends there to return home together.
Thinking of the coming night, he is slightly distracted from his surroundings, a common occurrence in people madly in love. But dangerous too, for as he steps into the alley where the stage door of the theatre is, he finds himself beset by a large group of ruffians, apparently led by Simon, the former lead actor of the company.
Curiously detached from the danger of the situation, he realizes that the dangerous situations he has found himself in lately have apparently gotten him used to letting his training take over in moments like these. His body takes a defensive stance, and his eyes note that none of his adversaries seem to have a gun. No blades either, a poor lot apparently.
Still there are ten of them, so even with clubs they'll get him in the end. In the meantime, his body has taken hold of the gun, and points it at Simon, clearly the instigator.
'Gentlemen, I have no quarrel with any of you, and I am pointing a loaded gun at your leader. I'm an expert marksman, so please be smart and disperse,' he says, convinced they will not risk being the one who gets shot.
But he is wrong. Simon is eaten up by hatred of anyone connected to Vincent, and he clearly does not realize or doesn't care about the danger the gun represents.
He sneers, 'Guys, did any of you understand a word he just said?'
The men grumble a negative.
'I didn't either, so I guess we can't do it then.'
And with that, he rushes Victor with five other guys.
Feeling some fear now, and seeing no other way, Victor fires the gun at the approaching group. Simon falls, and before they are on him he has time to fire again. Another man falls.
This slows the men down enough for him to shake his blade loose, still keeping the gun aimed at the group. Why don't they give up? Why do they take the risk to be the next to get shot? Don't they have any experience with guns?
Another shot hits another man, his aim true a third time in a row. But now they are getting too close, he needs to keep them at arm's length.
Therefore he switches weapons, using his blade to wound several of his assailants. But as he reels under the force of the first blow, to his shoulder, he knows he cannot take many more of those, he will soon be overwhelmed.
Thinking of Mina with regrets, he fights for what he is worth. Someone may yet come through the stage door and save his hide.
Firing another shot at random in the large mass of men, he can keep one side protected with his blade, injuring several men. But on his undefended side he gets hit several times and he loses his gun, his left arm now useless and his head spinning with a hit to his temple.
He lays about him with his blade to that side, getting the satisfaction of feeling the blade strike flesh. It cannot last, though, there are too many of them, and with the danger of the gun removed they are eager to get a few hits on him.
Weakening, his thoughts are on Mina again, hearing her clearly in his mind.
'Hold on my dear, only five left!'
That is a weird thing to dream at the moment of your death.
'Fly, or be killed', he hears her voice, even louder. He realizes he is not dreaming it, she really is there, in front of him, warning the assailants off. It works, for they are no longer beating on him, but it doesn't work, for they are not planning to obey a girl.
'Get lost girl, or we'll give you a good time after we're through with him,' a rough voice says. What happens next, is one of the most beautiful and at the same time most gruesome things he has ever beheld.
His gorgeous and sweet girl, still in her lovely blue gown, seems to fly towards him, and every man in her way explodes in a shower of blood. She is so fast that his eyes cannot keep track of her, and every time she slows, someone dies, messily. The men closest to him try to flee, but there is no escaping their fate.
In a few seconds, Mina has him in her arms, cradling him to her chest, gown spattered with blood but without a rent or a tear. He lets go of his weapon, giving himself up to her protection and losing consciousness.
A burning sensation in his mouth wakes him up sputtering.
A vile tasting, immensely strong liquor is setting his mouth and throat on fire.
'You see, I did get him to wake up', an older voice says.
Victor recognizes it as the director of the theatre.
'That vile stuff would raise up the dead,' another voice retorts, 'it's not meant for living beings.'
It's Vincent, thank God!