They were all looking at her, as I was, in silence,—a curious hush that lasted but a few seconds, but in which I could hear the beating of my own heart; it sounded as loud as a sledge hammer.
The spell was broken by a cry from the man with the pointed beard next me who sprang forward towards her, shouting in English: “Anne! Anne! It is I, your father!”
I was only just less quick; we reached her almost together, and faced about, shielding her with our bodies, and covering those nearest us with our revolvers.
“Father! Maurice!” I heard her sob. “Oh, I knew, I knew you would come!”
“What is this devilry?” shouted Anthony Pendennis in French. “How comes my daughter here? She is a British subject, and you—you shall pay dearly—”
He got no further. Our action had been so swift, so unexpected, that the whole crowd stood still, as if paralyzed by sheer astonishment, for a few breathless seconds.
“Spies! Traitors! Kill them all!” shouted the president, springing forward, revolver in hand.
Those words were his last, for he threw up his arms and fell as my first shot got him. The rest came at us all together, like a mob of furious wild beasts. They were all armed, some with revolvers, others with the horrible little bludgeons they call “killers,”—a short heavy bar of lead set on a strong copper spring, no bigger than an ordinary round office ruler, but more deadly at close quarters than a revolver.
I flung up my left hand, tore down the lamp that hung just above us, and hurled it among them. It was extinguished as it fell, and that gave us a small advantage, for the other lamp was at the far end, and its faint light did not reach us, but only served to dimly show us our antagonists. I felt Anne sink down to the floor behind me, though whether a shot had reached her or she had fainted I did not know.