“Give up, you scoundrel!” cried Capel. “You can’t escape.”
“Can’t we?” said the man, between his teeth, “More can’t you. Now, then, will you throw down that sword?”
“No,” said Capel, furiously. “You’ve walked into a trap, so give up.”
“Go on,” said the voice of the lesser man.
At that moment there was a bright flash of light, a sharp report, and Capel felt a sensation as if he had been struck a violent blow on the left shoulder, which half spun him round, while the round, glistening disc of light seemed to have darted back to the side of the bed.
Half stunned, but full of fight, Capel turned and made for the light once more, when there was another flash, a quick shot, and this time the blow seemed to have fallen on the top of his head, and, stunned and helpless, the sword dropped from his hand, and he fell on a chair, and from that on to the floor.
“You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!”
“Good job, too. Think I wanted my skin turned into pork crackling with that sword? Hold yer row, will yer, or—”
“We shall be taken and hung. Oh, my arm!”
“Look here, my dear pal,” said the little man; “if you want to preach, just wait till this job’s done. Throw the light on the door, Dick.”