Ivan fought like a fiend incarnate, kicking, lunging and using the butt end of his heavy revolver with tremendous effect, and but for him I should have been made a prisoner. I was surrounded and held by three of the men when he dashed in, and scattering them with his tremendous strength, rescued me and dragged me up the stairway.
“To the landing, monsieur,” he said; “our only chance;” and back we had to go, scrambling headlong up the stairs as best we could; while our assailants, exasperated at our escape, fired shot after shot after us.
That we were not hit seemed a miracle. The darkness alone can have saved us, aided no doubt by the excitement which prevented the men below firing steadily.
We had saved our skins but had failed in what to me was vastly of more importance—the rescue of Helga and the others; and the failure so maddened me that for the time I was incapable of consecutive thought. I was conscious chiefly of a fierce animal desire to wreak my vengeance upon the cowards who had captured her, and hugged the thought to my heart that I could certainly kill some of them. In other words I was for the moment almost out of my mind with baffled rage.
“We must save the mademoiselle, monsieur,” said Ivan at length, perplexed by my silent inactivity.
“Or avenge her. My God, if anything has happened to her, they shall pay dearly,” I returned.
“What shall we do next, monsieur?”
That question was soon settled for us, however; for suddenly lights appeared below and relieved the dead gloom of the landing.
“They are going to attack us,” whispered Ivan.
“We shoot this time and shoot to kill, Ivan,” I said, speaking out fierce wrath and with a sort of devilish pleasure at the prospect.