“Perhaps,” said Ethan soberly.
Once more they started on their way; all was soundless save for the ring of their own footsteps upon the flags; but suddenly they turned a sharp corner, and caught sight of another skulking shadow flitting before them in the gloom; and as they paused, the patter of muffled feet fell softly behind them.
“We are in for it,” said Ethan Carlyle, as he quietly plucked his cutlass from its scabbard. “I wonder how many there are of them.”
“Let them come from the front and it makes no differ,” said Longsword, blade in hand. “Faith, Master Ethan, it’s meself that loves a bit of a fight now and then, but I like a little daylight along wid it by choice.”
Ethan drew the dragoon into an open archway, and here they awaited developments. A number of dark figures stole through the shadows and gathered directly opposite.
“There they are, beneath the arch,” Ethan heard a voice say in French. “Now then, men, upon them in a body. I must have that ring.”
The voice was that of the Lascar; Ethan recognized its thin tones at once. As the man spoke there came the clear bold ring of advancing footsteps upon the frosty ground.
“There is some one coming,” said a second voice.
“Make haste!” cried the Lascar, “or we will be too late!”
A quick rush of feet followed this.