At this refusal Dulzura uttered a sudden low exclamation and took a swift step as if to pass Merry. Frank instantly turned in such a manner that he placed his back against the wall, with the door on his left and the old monk close at hand at his right.
Suddenly, from beyond the shadows of the foliage in the yard, dark forms sprang up and came bounding into the corridor. Out from the door rushed another figure. Dulzura uttered a cry in Spanish and pointed at Frank. They leaped toward him.
Merry’s hand dropped toward the holster on his hip, but with a gasp he discovered that it was empty. Instead of grasping the butt of his pistol, he found no weapon there with which to defend himself.
For all of the shadows he saw the glint of steel in the hands of those men as they leaped toward him, and he knew his life was in frightful peril.
How his pistol had escaped from the holster, whether it had slipped out by accident, or had in some inexplicable manner been removed by human hands, Frank could not say. It was gone, however, and he seemed defenseless against his murderous assailants.
In times of danger Frank’s brain moved swiftly, and on this occasion it did not fail him. With one sudden side-step, he snatched from the old monk’s hand the heavy staff. With a swift blow from this he was barely in time to send the nearest assailant reeling backward. The others did not pause, and during the next few moments Frank was given the liveliest battle of his career.
“Cut him down! Cut him down!” cried Dulzura, in Spanish.
They responded by making every effort to sink their knives in Frank. They were wiry, catlike little men, and in the gloom their eyes seemed to gleam fiercely, while their lips curled back from their white teeth.
Merriwell’s skill as a swordsman stood him in good stead now. He took care not to be driven against the wall. He whirled, and cut, and struck in every direction, seeking ample room for evolutions. He knew full well that to be pressed close against the wall would put him at a disadvantage, for then he would not have room for his leaps, and swings, and thrusts, and jabs.
The fighting American bewildered and astounded them. He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. When one leaped at him from behind to sink a knife between his shoulders Frank suddenly whirled like lightning and smote the fellow across the wrist, sending the steel flying from his fingers to clang upon the stones. The old monk lifted his trembling hands in prayer and tottered away. What had happened seemed to him most astounding and appalling.