They crowded upon him with loud shouts and whirling swords. Step by step he was beaten back, breathless, exhausted, but fighting on. And when the moment came when he must be taken or cut down, there was a sudden crashing sound from behind him; the glass of the window at the landing was splintered and the frame was dashed in upon the floor. The lad’s heart sank, for he fancied it must be some of the enemy come to take him in the rear. He dared not turn his head to see, for the blows were showering about him; but, then, his heart gave a great bound of joy as a strange, weird cry sounded in his ears and the giant form of Cole sprang through the shattered window and stood towering and glaring beside him.
But, as it chanced, the colossal slave was weaponless. Mighty as was his strength he could not pit his naked hands against the Tories’ swords. At the turn of the staircase, on the landing, a thick oaken post, carved and about the height of a fair-sized man stood, supporting the stair-rail.
STEP BY STEP HE WAS
BEATEN BACK
With a bound he had reached it; with a mighty wrench he tore it from its place; and, waving this massive weapon as lightly as a child would a sword of lath, he flung himself into the fight.
Tom was about striking his last weak blow, as the Tories saw clearly. But before the terrific onslaught of the giant they recoiled, amazed; the huge club wheeled about his head once, twice, thrice and they were swept, howling, to the bottom of the stairs.
“Brave Cole!” Tom gasped the words as he sank back upon the stairs, exhausted. “Strike hard; it’s our lives or theirs.”
At that time one of the party discovered Mr. Foster’s arms chest; the Tories threw themselves upon it with shouts of delight and in another moment a blazing volley swept up the staircase, the bullets singing spitefully past Cole’s ears.
“Back,” cried Tom. “Back, Cole.”
They bounded round the turn in the stairs, Tom bearing the frightened girl with him. Another volley crashed into the wall, behind where they had just stood.