“Death,” all three exclaimed together.
“Bind his free hand,” he ordered next.
But I was not going to submit tamely. I sprang to my feet and seized the chair. If I was to die it should be in hot blood, not like a sheep.
“Resistance is useless, Mr. Donnington. You must see that.”
My reply was not in words. I swung the chair up—it was a stout heavy wooden one—and struck at him with all my force. He jumped back and escaped most of the blow, but one of the legs struck him on the side of the head; and then a very hot five minutes followed. I laid the young fellow, Marco, senseless, and gave the other two something to remember me by before the chair was torn out of my grip, and I was seized and my right arm bound to my side and my legs lashed together.
Barosa had kept carefully out of the fight, but as soon as I was helpless he saw that the cords were tied very securely.
“Stand him against the wall there,” he said, indicating a spot at the foot of the bed.
They placed me as directed and then drew back.
He stooped over Marco, who was only stunned for the moment, drew the revolver from his pocket and handed it to one of the men. “You have yours,” he said to the other.
The fellow drew it out with a swift under glance at me, full of sinister thirst for revenge and gloating satisfaction.