Juanna was up in a moment and at his side. Xavier also sprang to his feet, cursing with fury and drawing his sabre as he rose.
“Follow me,” said Leonard to Juanna and Otter. Then without more ado he took to his heels.
A shout of laughter went up from the mob.
“This is the brave man. This is the French fire-eater,” they cried. “He strikes unawares and is afraid to fight.” Nor did they stop at words. All of them were jealous of the stranger, and would have rejoiced to see him dead.
“Stop him!” they shouted, and many of the men started, running like dogs to turn a hare.
Still Leonard might have won through, for he was swift of foot. But neither Juanna nor Otter could run so fast as he, and his pace must be their pace. Before he had gone a hundred yards he found himself confronted by a dozen or more of the slavers, some of whom had knives in their hands.
“Stop, coward, stop and fight,” they yelled in Portuguese and Arabic, waving their weapons in his face.
“Certainly,” answered Leonard, wheeling round and glancing about him.
There, not thirty yards away, was the drawbridge of the slave camp, and he thought that he saw it tremble, as if it was about to fall. At his side were Otter and Juanna, and towards him, his hideous face red with blood, rushed the great Portugee, sabre aloft, and screaming imprecations.
“Otter,” Leonard said quickly, as he drew his sword, “guard my back, for when I have killed this one the rest will spring. For you, young lady, reach the bridge if you can. Soa and your people are there.”