Mademoiselle Mystere was still in the doorway, her eyes gleaming cat-like through the holes in the mask she wore. She noted every movement of the struggle, and she swayed by its shifting fortunes like a reed bowed before gusts of wind. Both hands, white, soft and slender, were clasped over her heart.
“Who would think one of his years could fight like that!” she panted. “It is wonderful—it is glorious! He is like a gladiator! He will not be conquered! If I were not a spy, I could love him! His face—his! Ah, but he is handsome! He is like a strong young lion!”
She forgot herself, she forgot everything but the brave boy who was making that wonderful fight for life. She swayed and panted, she leaned forward, gasping for breath, she held out her hands, she wrung them, she sobbed.
And the battle went on. Frank had lost precious moments in trying to draw a revolver. They were on him again, like a lot of famished wolves. Snapping and snarling, they sought to tear him down.
Montparnasse tried once again to fasten his long fingers on the boy’s throat. With a swinging-round shoulder blow, Frank planted a fist under the left ear of the pickpocket.
Montparnasse went down like a stricken ox.
And now Bornier hastened to aid the men who had failed to conquer and subdue one lone American boy. He was getting desperate, for the other visitor had escaped, and he knew not how soon the police might be down on the place.
“Quick!” he cried. “Will you be all night at this! Finish your work quickly!”
“But he will not be crushed down.”
“A blow that will draw no blood—on the head! That will do it.”