A groan from the man beneath was the only reply.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked in a moment, in French.
"N--nothing," stammered Khodkine, struggling for his breath. "I--I am vanquished."
The situation was awkward. If Khodkine were strong enough, he might still slip away in the darkness. Rowland was groping about on the floor beside him for a weapon of some sort, when he heard a frightened whisper behind him.
"Monsieur Rowlan'--! You are safe?" Tanya was murmuring.
"Yes, thanks. But I'm afraid to get up. Can you find the light here--somewhere on the floor?"
"I'll try, Monsieur," she whispered. And he heard her groping about on her hands and knees among the scattered packages. In a moment she found the torch and threw its blinding glare into the eyes of the antagonists.
She stared at the sight of them, for the splinter wound in Rowland's cheek still bled freely and made dark discolorations upon his clothing and linen. But the American was sitting upon Monsieur Khodkine's stomach, blinking cheerfully at the light.
"You--you're hurt, Monsieur?" she gasped.
"Am I? It can't be serious. I'm feeling quite all right. And you, Monsieur Khodkine? Comfortable?"