"The knife, Countess. Cut the bonds of the prisoners. We must fight here for our lives and your honor."
The Countess Laure was quick to understand.
"You are safe now. They have no more shots. Hasten," he urged, reaching down a hand and assisting her to her feet.
He clutched the barrels of his pistols thereafter and hurled them directly into the faces of the infuriated men. Five of them were down and his prompt action had given the people in the room a little respite.
"Gentlemen," cried Marteau, sweeping out his sword and stepping into the open space between the prisoners and the overturned table on one hand and the renegades on the other, "quick, take your swords for the honor of the Countess and for your lives."
The man who led the renegades had some idea of military tactics. He spoke a few sharp words and half a dozen of them backed out of the room, entered the outer hall and ran around to the door on the side of the apartment which gave access to the great hall. The little band of defenders retreated into a corner near the fireplace, which was raised a step or two above the floor of the room.
Meanwhile Laure had cut the lashings of the Russians, the Cossacks, and the Englishman. They staggered to their feet numb from their long bondage, but inspired by the frightful imminence of their peril they seized their swords and presented a bold front to the two-sided enemy. There was one pistol left charged. Marteau handed that to the girl.
"The last shot, mademoiselle," he said meaningly, "for yourself if——"
"I understand."
"If you could only get to the door," growled the Russian commander, "my men outside would make short work of——"