Marmaduke was anxious that he alone should be recognized as the liberator, for he wished to receive all the glory of rescuing the captive. With that intent he pressed nearer Sauterelle, directing his followers, by an imperious wave of the hand, to disperse in search of the enemy, and, when found, to give them battle.
Interpreted into language, that command would have run: Hound down the mercenary crew, and spare them not! Their evil deeds have brought this fate upon their heads!
The avenging party understood this, and, thirsting for blood and glory, they hurled themselves out of the apartment, whilst Marmaduke turned his attention to the captive. He saw gratitude, admiration, even reverence, in the two blue eyes that looked at him. No fear of not being acknowledged as the rescuer-in-chief: Henry would acknowledge him, and him only.
“Ah, my deliverer!” he cried, in so-called French; “you have come to rescue me, to restore me to freedom! You have found my appeal for help, and these brave men are your followers?”
Marmaduke tried hard to understand this, but was obliged to ask if the conversation could not be carried on in English.
“Yes, yes, I can speak English,” came the reply. “The good priest has taught me English.”
At that instant a fierce combat was heard in an adjoining room, and horrisonous cries of rage and terror filled the whole building. The hero knew at once that his followers had encountered, and were waging deadly contest with, the wicked jailers, and his heart swelled with emotion.
He was right; his followers had drawn their home-made weapons, and while Charles, Steve, and Jim, personated these wicked jailers, Will and George personated the gallant liberators. Having had a rehearsal a few days previous, they now fought easily and systematically, and with such heroism and fury that victory must inevitably perch upon their standard. But, after all (and in this they were quite right), they fought as much with their lungs as with their arms, so that the din was tremendous. For full five minutes the combat raged without abatement. The gray light coming in through the open doorway cast a greenish and peculiar hue over our hero’s grand face, and he stood stock-still, collected but voiceless; while the other, wholly unprepared for such an uproar, longed to thrust his fingers into his ears, and pitied himself with all his heart as he thought of the racking headache that must soon seize him.
But finally they vanquished the enemy, and all except Stephen, who had not yet turned priest, rushed into the presence of the hero and heroine, shouting wildly: “Routed! Worsted! Slain!”
“All? Are all slain? And is the battle past?”