"Ne tirez pas!" hissed Teodoreschi in throaty accents that were vaguely familiar. "Percez! Attende, Serge, Vlada! Percez! Poignardez!"
The Italian's helper reached me first. I saw his knife in his hand, and struck out with my fist. Being a knife-fighter, it was what he least expected, and he went over. I ran behind the large center table, and as the Italian and the other man closed in, I reared it on end and toppled it at them. They jumped apart, and I found opportunity to heave another chair at the chap I had just knocked down.
But I was in for a bad time. Teodoreschi and the man who had first rushed me were ugly customers. I evaded them, slipped behind the couch that stood in front of the fireplace and tried to make for the window. They headed me off, and I drove a right hook to the jaw of my original foe that sent him reeling. Then the Italian was on me like a human juggernaut. He swept aside my blows as though they were harmless, folded me in his great arms and tossed me from him. I spun across the hearth into the fireplace, and brought up on all-fours in the ashes.
Every tooth in my head was jarred by the crash, but I had no time to think of pain. I heard the guttural snarl of the gorilla-man behind me, and looked up to see his knife descending in a stab that was aimed inside my collarbone. Desperate, I threw myself backward against his legs, and he fell on the couch. Yet he was up again in an instant, and chopping at me, with foam dripping from his lips.
I had to run, and as I ran, I kicked the fire-irons in his way. They tripped him and his knife went hurtling across the room into a bookcase. But I could not escape. His companions herded me back towards him, and presently I was battling to avoid his clutch. Once within his reach, I was helpless as a child.
His arms wrapped me like cables; his wicked green eyes blazed at me with insane ferocity; his teeth gnashed at my throat. And his two friends hovered near, watching for an opportunity to finish me with their knives.
Then I heard feet pattering in the hall, a cry of encouragement. I summoned all my strength for one last struggle.
"Shoot! Hugh! Nikka! Shoot!" I yelled.
Teodoreschi lifted me from my feet, and turned me face upward in his arms. I honestly think he meant to gnaw through my throat. His pallid cheeks gleamed with sweat. His eyes were utterly inhuman. His mouth dribbled saliva. But an automatic cracked in the doorway, and was followed by a choking cry. He hesitated, glaring down at me, and I could almost see the human intelligence returning to his face. There were two more shots, and he slammed me on the floor, with a barking screech of defiance.
The next thing I remember was Hugh pouring raw Scotch whiskey down my throat—and how good it tasted.