"A good door!" said Parkington. "But will it stand another?"
"We shall soon see," answered Constable.
Again the pirates bore back—again, the rifles cracked and four of them went down—again, there was a crash—the splinters flew, the hinges rattled, the lock sprang inward, bent and twisted, but the door still held.
"It will not stand another," said Parkington, drawing his sword. "Be prepared."
This time, however, the assailants did not go back. They simply lifted the log and sent it against the lock. And the door yielded, though slowly and reluctantly, dragging backward on its battered hinges, so that the foremost pirates had to fling themselves forward to its aid.
Whereby, the nearest met his death, for Parkington saw, and quickly passed his sword through the man's heart, the body tumbling across the entrance. The other saved himself by a leap back—but the door was open, now.
With a rush, the pirates came—to be met by a volley of bullets that, in the mass of men, had deadly effect. They stopped—wavered—and then Parkington and Constable were at them, their rapiers flashing as they sent them home.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the former, as he spitted his man in the jugular, so that the blood jetted forth in a great stream. "I would not have missed this sport for a hundred guineas.—Ha! that is it, is it?—well, accept this in exchange, my friend.... What, going! and so soon! Au revoir, messieurs! my heart goes with you—au revoir.... Mr. Constable, my compliments on your sword-play, it was most expert. True, they were but pirates, but some of them were not to be despised." And with a formal salute, he ran his weapon back into its sheath.