He moved nearer to the Englishman, until he could have touched him with his outstretched arm.
“Listen, monsieur. If you will but give me the papers—”
There was a motion—if ever so slight—of the fingers of Ferrers’s right hand. Only Mornay saw it. But it was enough. He sprang forward upon the man, and Ferrers’s whistle never reached his lips. In his wish to give the alarm he did not attempt to draw his fire-arm until Mornay’s hands and arms had pinioned him like a vise. All the fury of a life of longing was in that grasp. It seemed as though the years of sweat and privation had wrought upon his will and energy for this particular moment. He bore the Englishman back until his head struck the wall, and they came to the floor together. At the first sign of trouble, Wynne had started for the door, but Cornbury was there ahead of him. Not until then had there been a word spoken, a cry uttered; but now, almost at the same instant that Mornay and Ferrers crashed to the floor, Wynne set up a loud cry, which resounded down the corridor and stairs. In a moment there was a sound of tumbling furniture, and the cries of men seemed to come from every part of the building. But Vigot and his two fellows from above were first upon the landing, and set so vigorously upon the men mounting the stairs that their ascent was halted and they were thrown back in confusion.
In the meanwhile the struggle between Mornay and Ferrers continued. The Englishman had found his voice, and between his cries and curses and the clashing of the steel of Cornbury and Wynne the room was now a very bedlam of sound. Either the blow of his head at the wall or the sudden fury of Mornay’s assault had given the Frenchman the advantage, for Ferrers lay prone upon the floor, and, though he shouted and struggled, both of his wrists were held helpless in one of Mornay’s sinewy hands.
Suddenly Monsieur Mornay sprang away from the Englishman and to his feet, waving in his hands a packet of papers. He rushed past Cornbury and Wynne to the table, his eyes gleaming with excitement. With a fascination which made him oblivious to everything but his one overmastering passion, he tore the cover from the packet and examined the papers in the glare of the candles. In one of them he saw the name D’Añasco. It was enough.
None but a desperate man would have done so foolhardy a thing at such a time. Captain Ferrers was not slow to take advantage of his opportunity. He struggled painfully to his knee, and, drawing his pistol, took a careful aim and fired at the Frenchman. Mornay’s wig twitched and fell off among the candles. He staggered forward and dropped like a drunken man, his elbows on the table. Ferrers reached his feet, and, drawing his sword, made for the door. But Mornay was only stunned.
“Vigot! Vigot!” he shouted, rising. “Prenez garde, Vigot!”
But before Vigot could turn, Captain Ferrers had rushed out and thrust the unfortunate servant through the back. As Mornay saw Vigot go down he sprang after the Englishman into the corridor. Ferrers had set upon one of the fellows in the passageway at the same time that another and more determined attack was made from below. For a moment it seemed as though the constables had gained the landing. They would have done so had not Mornay, with an incomparable swiftness, engaged Ferrers and driven him step by step to the stairs, where at last he fell back and down into the arms of the men below. At this moment Cornbury, having disabled Wynne, came running to Mornay’s assistance with two heavy benches, which were thrown down the stairs into the thick of the men below, so that they fell back, groaning and bruised, to the foot of the stairway. Then, without the pause of a moment, Mornay dashed out the lights, and, carrying Vigot, ordered a retreat up the second flight of steps.
Vigot had a mortal wound and was even then at the point of death.