Something came over Mark Carter in that moment. Something at once cold and deadly, and hotly, fiercely passionate. He felt a kinship to all earth's fighting madmen—the Malay, run amok; the Viking, gone berserk; the Arab, charging through hell to paradise.
Like a human projectile he launched himself, straight for the throat of Baron Morriere!
"Ai!"
It was not a word, that sound that came from the noble's throat. No. There was something more primitive than that about it.
It was terror, incarnate.
Before the man could move, Mark's fingers were clutching at him, tearing his clothing and his flesh. Again he screamed.
As one possessed, Mark jerked him from the bosom of his guardsmen. Hurled him bodily across the room, to slam against the farthest wall with a crash that echoed through the ancient wing.
But now the guardmen's paralysis was broken. They surged forward as one man.
"Jacques! Look out!"