“Your prisoner, little master. My eyes are bad, and the light is dim. Who are you to come here and make prisoners?”
“I am the King,” Ughtred answered, rashly.
There were those who knew him. There was a murmur which was like a growl, and Ughtred hesitated no longer, but ran his sword through the man whose knife was already stealing from his tunic. He fell back with a shriek of horror, and the King himself in grievous danger, wrenched his sword free. There were half-a-dozen knives raised, and one must have struck into his chest. But Marie, stooping down, had seized Domiloff’s revolver, and, leaning over, shot the man through the heart. The King, who had recovered his balance, sprang amongst them, and they scattered like rabbits. Then came a great cry from down-stairs.
“The soldiers! Quick! Save yourself.”
They fled without waiting for a parting stroke. Ughtred lowered his sword and let them pass. There were three dead and wounded in the room, and Domiloff lay on his back where the King had thrown him. The King turned to Marie.
“You are a brave woman,” he said. “You have saved both our lives.”
But she held out both her hands to him, and her eyes were streaming.
“Your Majesty has saved more than my life,” she faltered, “and I have not deserved it. I have been your enemy.”
He took her hands gently.
“We have fought together,” he said. “Henceforth we should be comrades.”