His onslaught hurled the dagger from the nerveless hand of the horror-struck Memphite. For that worthy stood gazing, as if fascinated, at the upturned face of the dead Bhanar.
They grappled, tripped and fell, rolling over and over, now one seeming to gain the mastery, now the other. Above their writhing forms the archers awaited their opportunity.
Kneeling at the base of the pedestal the terrified little Princess alone made outcry, sending out upon the still evening air shriek upon shriek, intermingled with peals of frenzied laughter.
A slight lessening of the grip and Renny’s powerful hand stole towards Bar’s jeweled throat. A snap, a quiver of the big limbs and the Memphite lay motionless.
Renny staggered like a drunken man to his feet. Stealthily Wenamon the archer approached, with somewhat of the caution with which one might beard a wounded lion in its den. His bow had been cast aside. A dagger gleamed in his raised hand.
Renny’s swaying figure lurched heavily towards the statue of the Princess, to the base of which the Princess herself still clung. As his fingers gripped its flower-festooned base, Wenamon’s dagger flashed.
Renny suddenly straightened himself. His bloodshot eyes sought those of the Princess, who stood rooted to the spot.
“Sesen! Sesen,” he cried, and fell dead at her feet.