It was none too soon.
The great Damascus blade struck fire from the stone balustrade where he sat a second before.
Jarvis spun about, and his automatic barked. With the instinct of the born fighting man he fired for the heart: this was his error.
The bullets spattered off the angle-braced breastplate.
Down the steps came the horrid figure, raising the great sword again. The leaden shower did not halt the clanging monster, as the iron-clad advanced.
He remembered now that Rusty had two more revolvers—but Rusty was scuttling on hands and knees for the shelter of the turret entrance across the room.
In desperation Jarvis threw his revolver at the head of the assailant! It was a futile pebble toss.
The weapon clattered against the metal vizor and bounced off, as the weird assailant ran within striking distance. For the first time in his life came the sensation of helplessness in a fight. There was a numbing feeling of horror as he recoiled before this thing.
His back touched the stone wall, just as the quick figure made a forward step and struck again. The sword rang out against the rock, but the hand that held that weapon knew how to wield it with determination.
Jarvis had dropped to his knees, and imitated Rusty's escape, until he was out of reach. He might have grappled—but the thought came too late. He saw the ancient weapons on the wall—there was a great poleax.