“Let me in,” Ughtred cried. “At once.”
There came no answer save a man’s muttered curse and the sound of footsteps. Ughtred was wearing his military riding boots, and the door was crazy and old. A single charge, and it went crashing into the room. Ughtred stumbled, and saved his life, for a bullet whistled just over his head as Domiloff sprang to the window.
Marie, breathless and dishevelled, recognized Ughtred with a cry of wonder.
“The King!” she exclaimed, and Domiloff, who might have escaped, looked round and hesitated. Ughtred, who was as quick as lightning upon his feet, snatched him back from the window-sill and threw him heavily upon the floor.
There was no time for explanations. Through the débris of the door there sprang into the room half-a-dozen of the loiterers from the room below. They faced the King, standing like a giant in the centre of the floor with his long military sword flashing grey in the dim light.
“Be off,” he cried. “This is not your affair. I do not wish to hurt any of you, but I will kill the first man who comes a yard further.”
They hung back, but one remained looking about him with crafty, peering eyes, his long upper teeth gleaming like yellow fangs. His hand lurked about his tunic.
“Little master,” he said, “tell us what has happened here? There is a man hurt. What have you done to him?”
Ughtred’s sword was within an inch of the man’s chest.
“The man is unhurt and my prisoner,” Ughtred said.