De Borel, young, impetuous, a fiery nincompoop, easily led by the nose by his more brilliant friend, was not slow in following the lead given him. He and Herlaer made a swift rush for the improvised barricade whilst de Landas attacked in the centre and the others, with equal vigour, both on right and left. They thrust their swords somewhat wildly through the interstices provided by the legs of the chairs which towered above the overturned desk, lunged blindly into the darkness, for they could not see their opponent. For a few minutes all was confusion—the din of clashing steel, the hoarse cries of the assailants, and Gilles' ironical taunts as he parried all these aimless thrusts with the coolness of a consummate swordsman—all merged into a chaotic uproar. The next moment, however, Herlaer went down, and then de Borel, each with a deep gash in the leg, which had ripped up the flesh from the ankle to midway up the calf.
The front of the desk happened to be kidney-shaped, and it was through the aperture formed by that front as it lay on its beam end that Gilles' sword had suddenly darted out once and then again, like some vicious snake, with maddening rapidity and stealth, inflicting the sharp flesh wounds which had so disconcerted his assailants. They, entirely taken unawares, irritated by this attack from a wholly unforeseen quarter, not only fell back with some precipitancy, but also with a marked cooling off of their primary ardour. They had come straight from a festive gathering, were wearing silk hose and low shoes of velvet, and at this moment were wishing that their ankles had been protected by substantial leather boots. Somewhat sulkily they set to to staunch their wounds with their lace-edged handkerchiefs. De Landas watched them with a scowl, giving the while a short respite to his opponent—the latter, of a truth, well ensconced behind his barricades, was more difficult to get at than had at first been supposed.
There ensued a hasty council of war. Herlaer, limping, was despatched for reinforcements. The varlets who had effectually dealt with Jehan might as well come and lend a hand to dress their masters' wounds. Jehan, indeed, lay prone upon the flagstones of the hall, having apparently succumbed to a blow on the head, of which one of those same varlets was even now boasting with inordinate vainglory to his companions, when they were all incontinently called away to attend upon the young seigneurs.
De Landas in the meanwhile had returned to the assault. Leaving Herlaer and de Borel in the hands of their henchmen, he called the others lustily to him.
'À moi, du Prêt, Maarege, La Broye!' he cried. 'Beware of the fox's underground burrow, and en avant!'
He had espied the small coffer, seized it by one of its handles and dragged it across the floor. Aided by Maarege, they succeeded in placing it in position so as to block the aperture below the barricade. Now there was no longer any danger from that quarter; the enemy was getting foiled at every turn. And with renewed valour they once more rushed to the assault.
Gilles now was on his feet, ensconced in the angle of the wall, so as to allow his sword arm full play; and indeed, in his skilful hands the magnificent Toledo blade seemed like a living, breathing thing—a tongue of steel which darted in and out of the improvised barricade, forward, to right, to left, parry, en garde, thrust, lunge—out of the darkness, now and then only catching a glint of light upon its smooth surface, when it would flash and gleam like a streak of vivid lightning, to subside again, retire, disappear into the gloom, only to dart out again more menacing, more invincible than before.
And every time that this tongue of living flame shot out of the darkness it left its searing trail behind. Maarege was bleeding from the shoulder, du Prêt from the thigh; La Broye had a gash across the forehead, and de Landas' forearm was torn from the wrist to the elbow. On the other hand, de Landas' sword was also stained with blood. He gave a cry of triumph.
'À moi, de Borel! Herlaer!' he called to the other two. 'At the barricades, while we keep the rogue busy. He cannot hold out much longer!'
And, indeed, the combat was far too unequal to last. One man against six, and his only ally was the darkness. That too was failing him, for his assailants' eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. They were able to descry him more easily than before, and there was not a mean swordsman amongst them, either. Even now, under cover of a vigorous onslaught made by de Landas and his three seconds, de Borel and Herlaer—their wounds temporarily dressed—rushed for the barricade and dragged first one chair and then the other away, and finally succeeded in throwing the two others right into Gilles' legs, thus hampering the freedom of his movements. True, that during this rapidly executed manoeuvre, de Borel received a gash across the cheek and Herlaer a thrust in the arm; but the solitary fighter's position had been rendered decidedly more precarious.