“Strike hard!” breathed Longsword through his set teeth. His cutlass swung through the air with a “swish” and the foremost man fell back with a howl of agony. Ethan’s blade hissed downward in a favorite stroke and another of the party was out of the fight with a slash across the shoulder. But the remainder closed in. They were armed with swords, knives and heavy bludgeons; but the deftly played cutlasses of the two master swordsmen seemed to threaten all at once, and though the ruffians struck madly and often, the sharp points were ever in their faces, and the keen edges slashed and bit at them with fury.
A pistol shot rang out sharply. Ethan felt a sudden scorching line run across his forehead; then a gush of blood almost blinded him.
“I’m hit,” he said to Longsword, as he strove to dash the blood from his eyes.
This seemed to turn the grim Irelander into a demon. Ethan, dazed by the shot, had sunk upon one knee; the dragoon stood over him playing his weapon with the speed of light and the rage of a Berserker. But even his great skill and matchless endurance would not have served to beat the crowd of ruffians off; they were closing about him in a circle and about beating him down when a sudden gleam of light shot into the archway, and a stern voice called:
“What, you rascals! At them, men.”
Ethan’s dazed eyes caught one glimpse of the evil faces as the rays of a flaring torch lit them up. The circle broke at once and the men turned swiftly; the next instant they were fighting frantically against a new sword and a brace of heavy clubs in the hands of two stout porters.
With a gasp of delight Ethan saw that the new swordsman was Paul Jones; then all grew suddenly dark, and he pitched forward and fell upon his face.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE ROAD TO BREST
The wound in Ethan Carlyle’s head was not a very severe one; so next day he was about, looking a trifle pale, and with a bandage about his brow, but almost as well as ever.
When he came down from his room he found Longsword awaiting him.