Jack fought back gamely, for he realized that if once knocked to the ground he would probably be killed before the authorities could intervene to save him. He struck out vigorously right and left and men fell before his terrific blows.
But the odds were too great and were bound to tell at last. Jack went down, and the crowd piled on top of him.
At that instant a troop of horsemen bore down upon the struggling heap, striking right and left with their sabres and scattering the crowd in all directions, and they arrived none too soon.
Jack was unconscious. Bleeding from knife wounds in half a dozen places, and his face covered with blood from a wound in the forehead where a missile of some kind had struck, he lay perfectly helpless.
Rough soldier hands lifted him rudely from the ground and flung him across a horse, and then the troop galloped away.
While all this was going on, Frank had tried in vain to reach the side of his friend, who he knew was in trouble of some kind, although he could not make sure what. He did not realize the true state of affairs until he had seen the troopers take his friend’s body from beneath many others.
“Great Scott!” he cried to himself then. “They believe Jack tried to kill the Czar! What shall I do?”
The answer to this question came to him like a flash. Lord Hastings, a personal friend of the Czar, was, perhaps, the only man who, under the circumstances, would be given a hearing. Frank turned quickly and dashed madly down the street.
Round corner after corner he ran at full speed, nor did he check his stride until he reached the harbor and the spot near where the submarine D-16 was anchored.
A man with a rowboat hustled up at Frank’s bidding, and the lad ordered him to pull for the submarine with all speed.