Pascal, sword in hand, rushed forward and joined in the attack. At the same moment Julien signalled with his sword to the Death Brothers, who, with stilettos, gathered about the contestants.
“Bless my soul!” cried the Admiral. “This is murder.”
Pascal was not a good swordsman, and his advent disconcerted rather than aided the Count, who struck wildly, putting at defiance both science and skill. Victor did not wish to injure Pascal, but he had no compunctions as regarded the Count. Although opposed by two men, he changed his tactics from the defensive to the aggressive. Using a trick which he had learned from his French fencing-master, he disarmed Pascal, sending his sword flying into the air. As it fell the hilt struck the Count upon the head. Bewildered by the blow, he dropped his sword-point so low that it left the upper part of his body unguarded, and the next moment Victor ran him through.
The Count dropped his weapon and threw both hands into the air. The horrified spectators expected to see him reel and fall backwards, but, instead, he placed both hands upon his chest, as though striving to check the stream of blood which welled forth. His strength soon failed him; he sank upon his knees, then fell prone upon his face.
Pascal regained his sword and was joined by Julien. Victor was now confronted by the brothers of the woman whom he loved. The situation was a terrible one. His first thought was to throw down his sword and let them wreak their vengeance upon him. But life is sweet, and love is sweeter. Perhaps he could disarm them both, for even together they were not his equal in swordplay.
At that moment a loud report was heard outside, and a rifle bullet struck Victor’s wrist. It did not pass through it, but, momentarily, paralysed his sword-arm and the weapon fell from his nerveless grasp. Victor retreated several paces—he must gain time. He soon felt the strength returning to his arm, but how could he regain possession of his sword? Pascal and Julien were advancing towards him, when Vivienne threw herself upon her knees, and grasping her brothers, prevented their onward movement.
“Traitress!” cried Pascal. “Get out of the way. You are no longer a Batistelli.”
Releasing her hold, Vivienne accomplished her purpose. Reaching behind her brother Julien, she secured Victor’s sword. Then, leaping to her feet, she cried:
“You may kill him, but you shall not murder him.”
Armed again, Victor faced his opponents, but the apparently unequal hand-to-hand conflict was over. With howls like those of a pack of hungry wolves, Cromillian, followed by his moral bandits—who, in fact, looked more like a band of ragged rascals—burst into the room, and the tide of battle was turned. As Cromillian reached the body of the Count, he stooped and picked up the sword, at the same time dropping his rifle upon the floor. It was he who had fired the shot which had been intended for Pascal or Julien, not for Victor. The uncertain movements of the swordplayers had affected his usual unerring aim.