“Tis false—’tis false—false as hell. I did not do the deed—make way—who stays me dies upon the spot. Help—help! A plot—a plot.”
He had wounded several persons before, in the universal panic, they could get out of his way, and then Sir Francis Hartleton raised his voice above all other sounds, shouting—
“Seize the murderer.”
In an instant some half dozen of the maskers threw off their dominos and masks, presenting to the astonished eyes of the guests, roughly attired, well armed men, who immediately darted after Learmont.
Two other persons, likewise threw down their masks. One was Albert Seyton and the other was Ada; but by this time the half-maddened squire had fought his way to the further end of the saloon, and dashing against some folding doors, they flew open, disclosing a flight of steps leading to a conservatory filled with rare plants; waving, then, his sword round his head, he sprang up the steps.
“Surrender or we fire,” cried Sir Francis Hartleton.
Learmont turned, and said something that was not heard in the confusion—blood was streaming down his face, for he had bit his lips through, and he made repeated lunges with his sword, as now with frantic voice and gesture, he cried,—
“Off—off—tear me not to hell—fiends, off—why do you glare at me—off—off—’tis false—false, I say—a plot—a plot!”
“Seize him,” cried the magistrate, as he himself sprung upon the first step.
“Yield, monster,” said Albert Seyton, as passing Sir Francis, he flew up the staircase.